


Things Hidden

by lalakate



Category: Downton Abbey
Genre: Angst, Eventual Romance, F/M, Season 2 AU
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-02-05
Updated: 2018-04-29
Packaged: 2019-03-13 21:43:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 18
Words: 75,658
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13579497
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lalakate/pseuds/lalakate
Summary: Things go horribly wrong after Mary and Matthew come together when Matthew returns to Downton for a visit during the war.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Non-graphic discussions of non-consensual sex come into play as the story progresses.

"Good-bye, then," she managed, memorizing the texture of his cheek as trembling lips brushed rough smoothness, absorbing the scent of his uniform as it mingled with the fumes from the train. The blue of his eyes pierced her soul, their hue somehow even more startling in the marked contrast to the grayness of the morning.

She sealed her own eyes shut…pressing these small nuances into her memory just in case… Just in case.

"And such good luck."

The words were nearly a sob, the trembling of her hands somehow keeping threatening tears at bay as she took in every detail of his face. Every detail. She hated herself at that moment, feeling responsible for the fact that he was leaving, thrusting himself into a war he should never have to fight. Her own indecision knifed her gut yet again, and she knew that if anything happened to him…

No—she could not allow such thoughts to even gain a foothold. He would return…would survive…would inherit Downton, marry Lavinia…

Oh, Matthew.

She turned to go, knowing she would shatter before him if she didn't flee immediately. But a strong hand clasped her upper arm, preventing her escape, drawing her closer to her own undoing. His gloved palm cupped her cheek, seeing something on her face that would not allow him to let her go. Dark eyes rounded, teeth unconsciously biting her bottom lip, giving away just enough… just enough.

Lips touched down softly, asking, seeking, needing to know. And her response was quivering, overwhelmed, and finally open. Arms wound themselves tightly around bodies, clasping everything close as mouths refused to break contact. She had no idea if the dampness on her cheeks came from his tears or her own, not caring about anything except the heat of his lips, the warmth of his mouth, and the unvoiced feelings pouring from one to the other before time forced their hand.

For this moment, he was hers, searing her heart with the same ferocity with which his tongue branded the very air filling her lungs.

The whistle of a train tore at her, leaving legs shaking as he leaned back and looked at her as he never had.

"Good-bye, Mary."

The world darkened around her, blocking everything from her sight but him as she forced herself to breathe.

"Remember—you promised to bring it back safely."

The smile never reached his eyes, but lips dared one last lingering kiss, his hand a final stroke of her cheek before he turned to board the train. To leave her. She watched until he was no longer visible, a fragment of her heart borne away with him, lost into the wafting steam. She covered her mouth, sealing in the imprint of his kiss while blocking the sobs she knew would overtake her in the privacy of her bedroom. Both fear and regret were chocked down in a swallow, an act of defiance to the deathly stillness of empty tracks.

Then she left behind a whisper—a summons, a prayer, before beginning the lonely journey back to the walls of her home.

"You promised, Matthew. Remember—you promised."


	2. Chapter 2

She had to flee despite the cold, regardless of the threat of snow, needing to be away from the house with a desperation that burrowed uncomfortably under her skin. Had it truly been just over a year now, that day when she allowed herself to believe the course of her life might change even as she feared she might lose him forever? When she had bared her feelings to him for a fleeting fraction in time, when he had kissed with a passion that had shaken her in more ways than she could number?

But he had returned on leave, acting as if nothing had changed, moving about Downton with Lavinia at his side as if their stolen moments at the train station had been no more than a cruel hallucination. She had she caught him staring at her when he thought no other eyes were upon them, noticed a slight catch in his voice when they actually spoke. The confusion of what to think was driving her slowly mad, and being forced to see him under such circumstances was a form of torture too painful to continue. Enough of her spirit had been slowly chipped away for her own comfort.

She blatantly refused be at Downton when he said his goodbyes.

Yes, she had played her part in this game with no winner, had continued her maddening farce with Richard, attempting to paint her façade in the rich hues of implacability as she held her spine straight and her emotions in check. But when he had walked into the concert last night, alive and uninjured, the veneer had cracked. Her protection was now shattered, leaving a heart all-too exposed to risk being near him before he left her again in favor of his fiancé. She could not face him in such a state, would not allow herself to be pitied by him in any form or fashion.

The biting sting of winter on her cheeks was a welcome respite from the stifling air of her home, and she pressed her feet forward—steadily forward—seeking a place of solitude where she could lay down any pretense without fear of discovery. There it was—just ahead—an old cottage sitting in disuse for years that had morphed into a place of refuge for her. Only Carson knew of this secret dwelling, and there was no one she trusted more to guard it. She pulled the rusty key from her pocket, stepping into a shelter nearly as cold as the outdoors but protected from the biting breeze that had nipped her toes despite their covering. She took the flannel blanket from the cupboard, one softened through years of use, and wrapped it around herself after shedding her coat and boots.

The warming light of freshly lit oil lamps bathed the room in a comforting glow, and she sat in the rocking chair that creaked in time, picking up a book she knew she had little chance of actually comprehending. Still she opened the cover, stubbornly staring at worn pages with unseeing eyes. It was useless. He was too close. And her mind was too crowded with him to take in anything else.

She drew her knees to her chest, discarding the book in defeat as a lone tear slid down her cheek. Its solitude was soon broken, however, as disappointed hopes poured into the material meant to bring her solace. Audible cries filled the small room, choked gasps wracking her chest as the trappings of aristocracy gave way to the rocky emotions of a vulnerable young woman in love with one man yet bound to another. It was no wonder she missed the small click of the door, an understanding that she was being watched only dawning at the sensation of winter air breathing down her neck. She stood quickly, staring at the intruder, gaping in disbelief as she half-wondered if her imagination was turning on her.

"How did you find me?"

He looked at her sheepishly, removing his hat and tilting his golden head in a manner that always got to her somehow.

"Carson told me," he admitted quietly, his eyes dancing between her face and the floor. "Don't be angry with him, Mary. I literally had to grovel to convince him to tell me where you were."

Her heart thudded painfully, feeling as though it might bruise her ribs in an effort to reach him.

"Why are you here?" Her voice was cold, her stare as brittle as she could muster as she hastily wiped a tear away from his scrutiny.

"I couldn't leave without seeing you, Mary. I couldn't…" Their gazes locked fast as the streaks left by unhindered weeping punched him in the gut. Had he been the cause of this? He took a step towards her as she stumbled back, afraid of what being too near him would do to her. "I had to see you."

His actions from a year ago had eaten away at him, creating a tightening noose of frustration from which he could not extricate himself. Had he taken advantage of her concern for him when he had kissed her publicly without her consent? Made her feel obligated to conjure up emotions she did not feel to send him off to war properly? When he had heard nothing from her, he convinced himself of his folly, reaffirming his loyalty to Lavinia even as his heart remained shaken by the woman now standing within arm's reach. Then there was her own engagement, the news of which did nothing but convince him that the feelings expressed wordlessly on that platform had been his alone.

But this…her tears…her ardent need to put distance between them… was it possible he had been wrong?

She shook her head, closing her eyes to the plea etched on his face.

"You've made your choice, Matthew. What of Lavinia?" He flinched visibly at her assertion before moving towards her again, not breaking his stride until he was nearly upon her. He stepped over relentless guilt, blatantly denying it the power to thwart what he had come determined to unearth.

"What of Richard?"

She couldn't answer him, swallowing in an attempt to free words lost to her as she could not take her gaze from his face.

"What do you want from me, Matthew?"

She could almost see her words in the frosty January air, half expecting him to snatch them from her lips. But his hand instead reached for her cheek, drawn to her in a manner he could neither explain nor from which he could extricate himself. He searched her face, brushing away anther stray tear, leaning closer to her than he really should.

"I wanted…I just..." Her eyes shut in absolute understanding. She knew exactly what he wanted.

He leaned in closer. Their lips found each other, heat sparking instantly despite the cold around them. Their initial touch was soft, tenuous, then fleeting as his mouth left hers to kiss away the dampness on her cheeks. Arms encircled her firmly, keeping the blanket in place as her covering while his lips began a decent down to her jaw before resting on her neck.

"God, Mary."

She moaned into his hair, clasping him closer as lips and teeth worked magic on near her pulse, pulling him closer, ever closer, spurring them both to know more. Soft fingers wound themselves into his hair, weaving her own web of protection around him as his lips were driving her mad. Mouths sought each other again, speaking clearly with no words uttered as the atmosphere shifted, as the air thickened with a humidity created by mutual need.

Their progression was unintentional yet accepted, a yearning that had become insatiable, emotions that suddenly refused to be shelved yet again in favor of propriety and what was expected. Hands began to work fretfully, loosening restraints and removing all pretense in light of a future that could all too easily be cut short. Feet walked a quiet trail to a small bed in the corner, a shoddy antique transformed as newness and discovery descended upon its frame. The blanket covered them both, protecting their nakedness even as skin warmed skin. Touches were reverent, kisses consuming as private places became known.

The carelessness of their actions did not even register with her, a hidden danger from years past blissfully forgotten until he eased into her. And blue eyes widened in comprehension.

She saw the confusion, the disbelief, the question that sliced her open. She grabbed his face, pulling his mouth towards hers and kissing him into silence, moving with him until he had no choice but to complete what they had started with a driving rhythm she knew would salvage nothing even as they cried into each other.

It was over. Horribly and completely over.

He breathed harshly into her hair, still connected to her yet so very distant. She forced herself to hold his gaze, to weather the conflicting emotions crossing his features as he struggled to comprehend what her body had just revealed to him.

"Who was it, Mary?"

She had to turn her face, staring at the wall, the ceiling, anywhere but into eyes weighted down with hurt and disappointment.

"Does it really matter?"

He raised up in incredulity, gazing upon her as is she had changed form.

"How can you be so callus about it? Did this mean anything to you at all?" She squeezed her eyes shut, unable to block the sting of his words.

"Do you remember that Turkish Ambassador?"

Concentration morphed into shock, his eyes moving furiously as he processed what she had just admitted in a mind still raw from spent passion.

"How could you…why didn't you tell me?" Her arms felt lifeless, falling weakly to rest beside her head as her voice choked out an answer.

"Because I couldn't bear you looking at me the way you are doing right now. And I knew you would despise me for it."

She swallowed down a sob, forcing herself to look at him.

"For God's sake, Mary!" He breathed out heavily, shaking his head at nothing—at everything, as he drew himself out of her, rolling off the bed as he increased the gulf between them. He dressed quickly in silence, his back to her a rejection that tore at her physically. She sat on the bed, wrapping herself in the blanket as she silently beckoned him to look in her direction. He finally did.

"I had thought…had hoped…." He faltered, uncertain of what to say next. Everything he had sought, had so wanted so badly to be true had unraveled in a formless heap at his feet. "How could you conceal something like this from me all this time and then be with me like we just were?"

"How could you kiss me like you did at the station then come home to her without a word?"

He froze at her accusation, knowing she was right but too wounded to admit it.

"There is no comparison in what we have done, and you know it."

It could not have hurt more had he struck her. She refused to run after him as he moved towards the door, a fragment of pride capturing a plea from escaping her as his eyes found hers in the cold.

"Goodbye, Mary. Take care of yourself." His step faltered, her heart skipped. "I'm so sorry," he managed, dampening eyes unable to meet hers, more from his own shame than hers.

Just like that, he was gone. He had left her again.

How suddenly surreal everything became, the cabin still awash in comforting light as she observed halting flakes of snow through frosted glass. A strange hollowness engulfed her, noticing that his scent still covered her hands as she numbly attempted to fix the mess her hair had become. She fought down the abrupt urge to vomit, knowing as she sat in silence that she would never return to this place, its treasured solitude now marred forever by fatal blow.

She had to leave.

She had no memory of fastening buttons, of lacing boots or donning a coat. Her journey back to Downton was a blur, the mindless work of feet who bore her home in spite herself. She spoke only when necessary, barely existing as days progressed into weeks and she received no word from him. And as her path became more and more clear, she buried what remaining hope she had foolishly allowed herself to harbor, a new resolve taking root, one she could no longer afford to ignore.

She packed belongings stoically, ignoring the advice offered her until it ceased to come. Her mind was fixed, her determination to leave Downton set. A new world summoned her, its call rather frightening yet persuasive all the same. She was a Crawley—she would survive. And she would carve out a life for herself with this remnant left behind.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I must first alert you to the fact that I have slightly altered the timeline in this AU, having Mary and Richard's engagement occur slightly before it did in canon (only change of note that does not actually take place during or is referenced as a part of this tale.) I do hope you will forgive me this creative license and simply enjoy the remainder of the story. For clarification, the basic timeline in this story follows canon:
> 
> Chapter 1-November, 1916
> 
> Chapter 2-January, 1918
> 
> Chapter 3-Early September, 1918   
> (This is based upon the actual Battle of Amiens beginning on Aug. 8, 1918. We are given no date for injured Matthew's arrival at Downton. The date selected for this chapter attempts to factor in initial treatment of the wounded, communication with the family and transportation back to England.)

Early September, 1918

_He was suspended, floating in a lake alone until he felt a hand slide up his back. She emerged from the water beside him, nothing short of a goddess to his vision, black hair slicked down on wet skin. He could not help but smile at her, relieved at her appearance, warmed by her touch. How he had missed her._

_"Mary…"_

_They kissed as lovers, relishing all the other had to offer as they submerged under the surface. Air seemed unnecessary as knowing hands and lips continued their daring exploration, already marked sensations only heightened by the water's silky texture. He pulled her to his chest, tensing at the feel of her pressed softly against him, unable to breathe at the overwhelming need to clasp her closer still. But she was slipping away from him, drifting to a place he could not follow._

_"Mary!"_

_He could not locate her, attempting with everything he had to return to the surface to seek her out. But he could not move, his limbs stubbornly unresponsive to the commands his mind was issuing as panic rocked his frame._

_"Mary."_

From his sleep came her name, the plea in his voice unmistakable each time it was cried out. It amazed her that he never sought her own presence in this unconscious state, nor that of his former fiancée. Only hers…only Mary's…over and over again.

Isobel knew he would seek the young woman yet again when he awoke, the despair obvious upon his face when he would remember that she was not here. America, her family had asserted, a trip to her grandmother's to help her get over a broken engagement. But that explanation had never sat comfortably with Mrs. Crawley, the inherent risk of crossing the Atlantic during a war just a bit much for no other reason than to mend a broken heart. A heart she had never believed was all that attached to Richard Carlisle in the first place.

He began to stir, the increased restlessness a sure sign that he would awaken shortly and be forced to deal with the harsh reality that was now his life. Her son had been lucky to have survived at all, as poor William's death was still felt keenly by the entire household. But his eyes were so lifeless, his existence seemingly pointless in the state in which he now found himself. Or so he had told her but yesterday.

"Mother."

She looked to him immediately, forcing a cheerful smile upon her face as she squeezed his hand in assurance.

"I'm here, Matthew."

He swallowed, the pastiness of his throat making words difficult as the name she now expected was spoken.

"Mary. Where is Mary?"

How she despised explaining her absence repeatedly, having to experience his expression of disappointment over and over each time she answered this question.

"She's in America, dear. Remember?"

His brows drew together in confusion, marked features clouding over with a remorse that chilled her skin. He made a noise of some sort, whether from physical or emotional discomfort, she could not be certain as unblinking eyes glassed over in obvious regret.

"It's my fault, you know."

This was new, an assertion she was unsure of how to interpret but somehow understood to be important. She leaned towards him quietly, laying a hand atop his arm as she dared further inquiry into what was clearly sensitive territory.

"What's your fault, my dear?"

His eyes took hers on directly, leaving her in no doubt that he knew exactly what he was saying.

"That she's gone. It's my fault."

"She went to America because of Richard, Matthew. Don't you remember? I told you all about it yesterday. She ended their engagement and needed to get away for a while." A smile with no mirth tilted the side of his face as his gaze fell from hers.

"No. Not Richard—me. She needed to get away from me." An icy shiver brushed her spine.

"Why on earth would you say such a thing, Matthew? You barely saw Mary the last time you were here." He grimaced at the lie, having seen more of Mary that afternoon than he had had the right.

"That's not exactly true."

Pain coupled with betrayal, mortification overlapping sorrow—the expression frozen upon wounded dark eyes had torn away at his emotional fabric, haunting him with the fervor of a vengeful specter since the moment he abandoned her in that cabin. He had never been more ashamed of himself. What right did he have to even utter her name?

"What are you saying, Matthew? Did the two of you argue?" He could not bear to look at his mother, this woman who still thought him good, the ceiling becoming a screen on which he relived the encounter he wished could be forever erased from his history.

"You could say that." If only it had been a mere argument. If only he hadn't been so bloody self-righteous, had given her a chance to explain what now seemed to be a matter of less and less importance. If only he had not appointed himself her judge and jury, acting towards a woman he now knew he loved in a manner that sickened him. And why? Because he had held her to a higher standard than that he kept for himself? Because his inflated male pride demanded that no man but he be given the right to know her in such a manner? Such arrogance now mocked him, forcing him to examine himself in a light that left him despondent.

After all, who had initiated their encounter in that cabin?

She had been trying to distance herself from him, attempting to protect herself from further injury. Yet he had tracked her down and dealt her a massive blow.

"I treated her horribly, Mother. Perhaps I deserve what has happened to me. It's a rather fitting penance, in more ways than one."

Gooseflesh prickled her arms at his words, his unmerciful sentence upon himself hollowing out her insides.

"Don't say that, Matthew. Your injury is not some sort of divine punishment. It's actually a miracle that you are alive."

A miracle? The true miracle would be if Mary could ever forgive him. What a coward he had been. And that was putting it kindly.

"I'm told that Mary is quite well and enjoying her stay in New York. There is no need for you to berate yourself so horribly when she seems to have forgotten whatever it is you fought about and moved on with her life." A pained chuckle wracked his form, and he stared into a nothingness he willingly accepted as his just desserts.

"I hope she is happy. She deserves to be." But he somehow knew better.

She would never forget the way he had treated her, the scorn he had showered upon her nakedness while she lay beneath him in a most vulnerable state. His stomach cramped in response to his actions, a wave of nausea passing over him that prompted his mother to offer him a basin as she supported his back. He cringed after emptying the meager contents of his stomach, despising the fact that he could do so little for himself and even less for her.

"Perhaps some water will help," Isobel offered, the brightness of her tone an eerie contrast to the concern darkening her face. A low grunt refuted her suggestion soundly. He had abandoned all hope of redemption the moment he had turned his back on her, rejecting such love offered him in exchange for the jagged rocks of self-righteousness. He had dared to cast a stone, to plant his seed in the soil of moral high ground.

And he had found the harvest bitter, indeed.

"No. Nothing will help me now." His despondency chilled her lungs.

"You mustn't speak like that. Mary would not like it at all." He shut his eyes, the blow of her name almost too much from lips other than his own.

"Mary has every reason and right to hate me, Mother. And she's all the wiser for it, believe me."

He closed his eyes to her sharpening glance, but not before the relentless guilt they bore pressed heavily upon her chest. A faint suspicion crawled up her arms, its aftermath birthing a cold knot in her stomach.

"Whatever do you mean, Matthew?" She sensed the dismissal in his smirk, smarting at the finality of his voice.

"The thing is that I don't deserve her, Mother. I never have."

She could not help but envision a certain downcast, tow-headed boy who had hidden from her in the pantry while her favorite serving dish laid in shattered remnants across the dining room floor. If only she could fix this situation and tend to his wounds as easily as she had then. But cold certainty insisted that what currently tore at his conscience was a matter of much higher significance. And it was exacting quite a costly toll.

"I don't believe that for a moment, and I'm sure that whatever happened between you and Mary can be worked out with time and patience. Most things can when two people truly care about each other." He drew a breath that rattled in his chest, his response so quiet she almost wondered if it had been imagined.

"Some things can never be mended."

Blurred innuendos refocused her mind's eye, and she finally saw him as a soldier, a man knowingly trespassing in death's backyard, clinging to tantalizing shards of life even though they bore the ability to cut. Pieces began to fit together, arranging themselves into a picture on which she hesitated to gaze. She somehow knew that he would give her no further details in a last-ditch attempt to shield the very woman he felt beyond his reach. But answers were needed, the truth now a necessity of the highest order.

The time for full disclosure had arrived at Downton on a stretcher in the form of her broken son. And if her suspicions bore any merit whatsoever, he was not the only one in need of a miracle.

* * *

 

 Isobel returned some time later, not having received all of the knowledge she had sought but thankfully bearing in her possession a most vital piece of information. She strode forward with a purpose, moving past the sea of recovering wounded haltingly instructed to count themselves as fortunate.

Fortunate. Her son would disagree.

A freshly planted determination to do something for him charged an energy into her step it had lacked since his injury. She could not look upon the other men just now, breezing past them with a honed focus. Matthew needed her, her dear boy was in trouble, and there was nothing she would not do to attempt to right things as best she could. He was thankfully sleeping again, and she quietly claimed the seat beside his cot, observing the slight movements of his features. He looked troubled even in rest, this son she had once held to her breast now grown into a man with facets hidden from her.

"Mother." His eyes remained shut, but his voice was clear. Not asleep, then, but on its border, she mused.

"What is it, dear?" A dry tongue sought cracked lips, eyes groggily opening in an attempt to focus.

"You must let her know."

Her heart sped imperceptibly as she leaned in close, his request taking on the intonation of one quite personal. Might he possibly just admit the root of his self-reproach in this state of semi-awareness? She half-feared what he would say.

"Mary, you mean?" she questioned unnecessarily. "What is it I should tell her?"

His breathing became more rapid, fingers clenching and unclenching his blanket at the importance of his summons. A sharp grimace halted his words, bringing her swiftly to his side as she waited for the spasm to pass. Cruel tremors eventually began to ebb, clinging stubbornly to one arm she clasped firmly to herself, absorbing his discomfort with the relentless determination of a mother.

"There now," she breathed through a constricted throat, soothing a wayward lock of hair from his eyes. "Is that better?" A response was slow in forming, the fight to release it physical.

"You must tell her, Mother." Blue eyes focused directly, rapid breathing slowing in its tempo as his plea was issued yet again.

"Tell her what, Matthew? That you're sorry for something?" He squeezed her hand, attempting to press upon her the importance of his words. His gaze drifted fleetingly before crystallizing yet again with obvious effort.

"That I could never despise her."

Despise her? Mary? She drew breath at the unexpectedness of his statement, perceiving its urgency even from his half-conscious mind.

"Don't worry, dear. I shall take care of everything."

He nodded slowly, her assurance seeming to settle him as he finally gave into the blessed pull of sleep. But her thoughts were racing, tripping over each other as she attempted to think through what had to be done immediately. Just how complicated a situation was she facing? Leaving him would be difficult, but his physical care would simply have to be entrusted to the doctors and nurses on hand. His emotional needs were another story, however, and she knew she must proceed with a high amount of caution. She was stepping into an area shrouded in gray, a hidden realm to which she had received no invitation.

How Mary would respond to her presumptiveness was uncertain at best and held the distinct possibility of being blatantly hostile. But the time for action had come, things left to chance far too long. And as she fixed her resolve on the mission ahead, she could only hope that her well-intended interference would bring about more healing than damage.


	4. Chapter 4

She grimaced at her body's continued discomfort, shutting her eyes in denial as she rubbed her temples soundly. Getting out of bed had become a true effort.

Sleep had cruelly mocked her yet again, the irritating rays of morning sun peeking through her drapes making her all the more irritable as they basked in taunting cheer. Her head began its routine pounding, and she grasped the large glass of water left by her bedside, gulping it greedily as she waited for it to perform its magic. She was weary, overwhelmed, uncertain of where her life was taking her. And everything just ached.

Mary knew she didn't look well. As if her own mirror did not attest loudly enough to that fact, Mrs. Jacobs made certain to remind her of it nearly every waking hour. The past few days had been especially physically trying upon her, and she had finally sent for the doctor, as much to silence her overly-protective housekeeper as from any real thought that the local physician could offer any measure of relief. She had actually laughed when kindly Dr. Meadows had inquired how well she had been sleeping, her merriment quickly morphing into tears she could not curtail as exhaustion took its toll. The poor man had taken it all in stride, giving her hand a fatherly pat as he simply allowed her a good cry. He then gently ordered her to increase her food intake and to rest more frequently, reassuring her that she should feel like her old self again after a few weeks if she followed his advice.

Her old self…if only it were that easy.

Her appetite had fled the moment his eyes had flown open in shock, continually decreasing in the weeks that followed until she finally made her decision to begin life anew away from Downton. It had improved somewhat over the months, but food somehow had never regained its former flavor or appeal. She ate because it was necessary, drank to sustain life, waking continually to dawns that held little promise. And sleep? If only she could clasp it to her breast, allow herself to be warmly lulled into an oblivion without interruption. Yet her own life taunted her in that arena to the point that she was now on speaking terms with the stars upon which she gazed while pacing her bedroom floor.

Night brought nothing but agony. As the sun made its escape, every drop of self-recrimination she attempted to shelve during daylight's healing rays crept out of hiding, descending upon a soul already weary with a cruel zeal. She continually cursed her own weakness, wrapping herself in weighted reproach that did nothing but exhaust her. How vastly different her life would now be if she had possessed the fortitude to step away from Matthew rather than giving herself to a man who was not her own with such abandon. How might circumstance have altered between them had she admitted everything to him when he first proposed? And what if she had simply chosen to scream when Kemal Pamuk entered her bedroom?

Her bed had become a traitor, her sleep interrupted with a frequency that steadily increased. Her mind was now her enemy, assaulting her in the darkness with inquiries too personal for the daylight as months of continued silence had worn on her. Was he still engaged? Had they married and no one dared tell her? Was he alive? Would anyone tell her if he wasn't?

His name was strangely absent from all correspondence, left out of any conversation with a deliberation that had begun to make her worry. She was quite certain it was her mother's doing. Cora had taken great pains to help her get settled, spending weeks with her as she assisted in hiring a small household staff, organizing the small but elegant home, and actually taking time to attempt to draw her daughter into one conversation after another. Depression, her mother had asserted, a condition that Lady Grantham had been determined to help her overcome through activity and household management. Mary had actually found great comfort in her presence, coming to rely upon Cora's care and gentle conversation in a manner quite unexpected. Perhaps it was because her mother was the sole person who knew the entirety of her situation, that pretense was blissfully unnecessary as she had nothing further to hide. There were moments when she had even managed a smile, a feat she was certain her mother saw as a measure of personal success.

A new wardrobe had been compiled, one still suitable for an earl's daughter yet unassuming enough to afford her the ability to blend into to her new surroundings. Mary had been adamant that no one here be allowed to connect her to her past, taking on a name with no title and adopting the façade of a heart-broken widow who had lost her husband to the war. Her status had earned her some local sympathy and silenced any speculation concerning a young woman living alone. Yet she kept almost completely to herself, still not ready to take up permanent residence in this unknown territory as she knew she would eventually need to do.

Yet she even now shivered at the memory of her initial confession, still shaken in reliving that moment of disclosure behind a shut door when she voiced to her mother why she could not stay. She could stomach it no longer while he remained attached to Lavinia, had lost the strength to continue the farce of having true feelings for Richard, all because of what had transpired in that cabin. She had sworn Lady Grantham to secrecy, unable to face just how disappointed her father would be with his golden heir if he were aware of what had happened between them, and how devastated he would be knowing his daughter had fallen…twice.

How else would he understand why Matthew had walked away from her with no proposal? No letters? No, her father would have had to have been made privy to another night of folly, another splotch on his eldest's reputation in order to fathom Matthew's rejection of her and the difficult choices thrust into her life. Matthew's dismissal had been painful enough. Her father's would cripple her entirely.

Cora had suggested America, a clean start in a new world. But Mary had quickly refused such a notion, choosing to travel north rather than across the Atlantic. She told herself that remaining in England would keep her steady, that being somewhat close to family would afford her a tenuous connection to the girl she had been even as she began her life as a woman she did not yet know. But the truth was that she could not yet imagine being a continent away from him, even though a part of her wanted to banish his presence from her memory forever. She could never escape him, no matter how far she ran. He had etched his very being inside of her even as he had stared down at her in disgust, binding himself to her in a distorted manner from which she would never be free.

"Damn you, Matthew Crawley." Had she actually said it out loud?

Mary looked around her bedroom, sighing into its emptiness as she made her way to the vanity and began to brush her hair. Evans predictably arrived within minutes, taking up the tasks of a part-time lady's maid as she did every morning. She was no substitute for Anna, but her soothing conversation coupled with a kindness of spirit was a comfort, all the same. Sounds of life stirring elsewhere in the house eventually beckoned her from her seat, and she grasped them as a lifeline, stepping away from the precarious cliff of despondency over which she peered too often.

Looking back served no purpose now. No. It was time to move forward.

She walked through her morning duties in an unhurried manner, noticing little things that had too long remained unseen. Her senses had oddly become heightened to the slightest of touches, the smallest of sounds. There had been recent moments of stolen peace that had taken her by surprise, a shred of hope that would clasp her by the finger in a small token of promise. Life had begun to tug at her in a manner unknown, demanding that she pay attention, unleashing a fullness in her chest that would nearly render her breathless at times. A fleeting softness touched her face, a smile appearing that somehow infused a measure of profound strength. If only she knew what to do with it all.

Private musings were startled by an insistent knocking upon her front door, drawing her from her seat in an unsettling fashion. There were no scheduled deliveries for today, no visitors expected. And then came a voice that stilled her heart.

Isobel. Dear God, what was she to do?

She cringed, rooting herself to the floor as her pulse became deafening. Timing was vital, and Mary wondered frantically if she could somehow keep this meeting short enough to ensure no damage was done. Two duties struggled for dominance, forcing her to lay one quietly aside as she took up the unwanted mantle of hostess. She swallowed resolutely, taking a breath to steady herself as she haltingly made her way to the top of the staircase. If there was no way to avoid this meeting, she might as well be done with it quickly. She only prayed she would give nothing away.

Each footfall echoed in her ears, and she nearly faltered the moment Mrs. Crawley's form became visible. The older woman turned in her direction, smiling at her a bit too brightly as Mary's insides began to churn. It was as if she were standing in another world…another life…such a tangible tie to the man she was attempting to forget standing physically before her. Mary bristled at the scrutiny of eyes focused much too keenly, steeling her own gaze as she steadied her legs determinedly.

"Mary, my dear, how good it is to see you. Please forgive my unexpected call. I hope I didn't catch you at an inconvenient time."

Isobel was startled by the younger woman's appearance, the lack of color upon her cheeks only heightened by distinct dark circles smudging her eyes. That she was uncomfortable with her unexpected arrival was palpable. Extreme caution would indeed be prudent.

"How did you find me?" Mary had no time for pretense or polite conversation, cutting to the quick of the matter with a tenaciousness Isobel could not help but admire.

"Your mother. She gave me your address."

Mary drew back slightly, physically stunned by what she considered an absolute betrayal. Why would her mother do such a thing?

"What else did she tell you?"

Dark eyes watched Isobel warily, the young woman before her still clinging to the banister that held her upright while effectively blocking the staircase.

"Only your location, dear. And she would not have done so had I truly given her a choice."

Relief and confusion descended hand-in-hand, spurring her to ask yet another question even as she feared where further conversation might lead.

"What do you mean?"

Isobel took another cautious step towards her, marking her words carefully.

"Matthew has been asking for you incessantly. He is quite determined to locate you." Her ire crested, his nerve in this belated quest granting her a modicum of strength.

"And if I don't wish to be located? Everyone was to be informed that I had gone to America."

"And we were, dear," Isobel returned quietly. "But I had to make sure. Matthew misses you terribly, you see."

"Matthew? Misses me?"

The questions were punctuated with noise of disbelief as she shook her head adamantly in denial. "He made it quite clear that he wanted nothing more to do with me the last time I saw him, Isobel. I cannot fathom that he has so drastically changed his mind."

Dark eyes narrowed with a flash of steel, daring Mrs. Crawley to challenge what had just been declared with subdued ferocity.

"War changes things, Mary."

As if she weren't well aware of that fact.

This war had changed her life beyond recognition. It had cost her everything.

"Perhaps he should discuss those changes with Lavinia," she bit back, drawing herself up as tall as she could. "She is the woman he is to marry, after all. I would only be in the way." Sharp bitterness permeated each syllable, any attempt at indifference now cast aside.

"He ended his engagement to Lavinia months ago. Did no one tell you?"

She suddenly felt suspended, the room and everything within it frozen in time. Even the railing within her grip lost its texture as she formulated a response.

"No."

Why had her mother not written to her about this? Had she feared what the news might do to her? Launched a misguided attempt to protect her from further heart-ache or shattered hopes?

"He wrote to her not long after you left, actually," Isobel volunteered, watching Mary's expression all too closely. "Told her that she deserved a better life than she would have with him and that he was releasing her from their understanding."

Of course, Lavinia deserved a better life. Lavinia deserved a future with a measure of hope. But she? What was it Matthew felt she deserved? Was she living it already? The thought made her shiver in a cold rage.

"And this gives him the right to summon me back to Downton?"

"I don't know any of the particulars about what occurred at your last meeting, but I know he feels dreadfully about how things were left between the two of you. He wants to make amends, my dear," Isobel explained, noting her attempt at lowering Mary's hostility had gone horribly awry. Her chest was heaving, unwanted tears pricking the corners of her eyes as months of repressed hostility finally found a voice.

"I'm not concerned with what he wants, anymore. He's done quite enough already." The words were launched in a fury, nearly knocking Isobel over with the force of deep injury. "I actually left my home, my family, distanced myself from everything I know so he could move on with Lavinia. And I have worked extremely hard to build something for myself away from him, on my own. I cannot be expected to uproot my life every time he changes his mind, no matter how badly he feels!" She was suddenly spent, all fight gone from her as she fought back tears with a will of iron now melting at an alarming rate. "Can't he just leave me alone?"

To say she was shaken would have been a gross understatement. Isobel stood somewhat stunned by the extent to which this woman so loved by her son had been wounded by him. An unnatural quiet settled upon the room, the sounds wafting from the kitchen the only noise to be heard.

Mary wished she had a drink, something strong and stout to take the edge off of pain freshly exposed.

"Forgive me, Isobel. I know that none of what happened between Matthew and me was of your doing." The fragile state of her voice drew her, compelling Mrs. Crawley to dare reaching out. She touched Mary's arm, concerned at its cool, clammy texture, noting again the heavy weight in her eyes before the younger woman spoke. "Perhaps it would be best if you left."

It was neither a simple request, nor an angry retort. It was a plea born of desperation, but one she must choose to ignore.

"Mary, I wouldn't have traveled all this way to see you if it weren't important."

Confusion and frustration fought for dominance as Isobel's words were processed, both crumbling to ash as something worse sank in merciless talons. Cold fear gripped her, stilling her heart, squeezing her throat as she clutched the railing in a brutal vice.

"Is he alright?"

Her expression begged for an answer. And Isobel was now certain. This woman loved her son.

"He's been injured, Mary."

He gaze rounded, breathing suddenly difficult as the room narrowed around her.

"What?"

Isobel dared a step in her direction, as much out of concern for Mary's physical strength as her own desire to read her.

"His spine has been bruised, my dear."

Splotches dotted her vision, the sensation of sinking nearly overwhelming her as hands quickly guided her to a chair. Matthew…spinal damage…it could not be.

"Breathe, Mary. That's it. Nice and steady, my dear."

Her head was still spinning, and she dropped it to her lap, trying to absorb the truth, to shut it out, to keep herself from crumbling when the glue holding her together had lost its grip. She heard footsteps followed by a whisper from Mrs. Jacobs as a glass of water was pressed into her palm.

"Drink this, Mary. It might help."

Shaky hands guiding the cup to her lips, the cold liquid steadying her body as her insides twisted themselves into a crumpled knot.

"How bad is it?"

The question was barely audible yet insistent. No matter how pained the expression staring up at her, Isobel knew that directness was required.

"He can feel nothing from the waist down."

What little color she had drained from her immediately. Her hand covered her mouth in an effort to comprehend, to ward off nausea, to take back words of condemnation she had just unleashed.

"Oh, God." A surge of grief spilled over floodgates of protection, tears pressing out of her with an audible wail. Her body shook from sobbing, feeling the assurance of an arm around her shoulder, a hand atop of her own as a part of her soul was severed. How long they sat there, weeping, clasping, comforting, neither knew. The ticking of the clock seemed unnaturally loud, and Mary bit back the temptation to throw her glass in its direction. Everything she knew had been demolished yet again, hatred she had attempted to whet into precision now no studier than a paper hat.

She finally stood, her brow creased tightly as a decision was reached. She made for the stairs, pausing in a wordless summons for Mrs. Crawley to follow despite the incessant pounding in her chest. Isobel deserved an explanation. And the truth was now much too persistent to escape.

A quiet path was traversed to a small room nestled in the corner. Here Mary paused, resting a hand upon the door's surface before daring to enter its warm confines. They were now afforded absolute privacy, and she led Isobel purposefully towards the back wall where her reality was confronted in a manner most humbling.

Hushed whispers confided what Isobel had feared to learn, Mary's dark gaze fixed upon what she had fought so fiercely to conceal. The past was received with sealed lips by a woman too overcome by competing emotions to utter a sound. They stood in absolute silence, a delicate camaraderie forming in the room's recesses. The enormity of what was facing them stared up at Isobel unblinkingly, shaking her in a manner that rendered her speechless.

Mary looked at her with a question, and she nodded in response, willingly accepting the burden entrusted to her with steady hands. She marveled at the strength of the young woman before her even as she ached for all she had faced alone and all that Matthew would face upon her return.

"Come back with me, Mary."

The request was whispered, met with a glance neither surprised at its utterance nor hopeful in its outlook.

"I can't yet. It's too soon. I'm not strong enough."

There was no anger in her assertion, only a frank honesty Isobel accepted with no rebuttal.

"You've been through quite an ordeal, my dear, and recovery does take time. When you've regained your strength, we shall journey together, if you wish."

A single word struck her, its impact widening her gaze in confusion.

"We?" Eyes met unflinchingly, an enormous gesture traversing the space between them.

"I shall stay and help you recover if you will allow me to do so, Mary. I should like to assist you in any way that I can."

Mary shook her head, attempting to process too much, too soon as one question fled her lips.

"What of Matthew? Don't you need to be with him?"

The clenching of her heart was almost painful, the need to be at his side quite pressing, even as she knew she could not leave Mary as she had found her.

"Matthew has round-the-clock care from a staff of professionals. As much as I miss him, he can manage without me a while longer." She leaned in closer, pressing forward ever so slightly. "But just who is looking after you, my dear?"

The stifling silence of the room was her sole response. A small cry was then uttered, a growing ache in her breasts compelling Mary to sit down. Isobel moved towards her, bending over the younger woman as a wordless transaction was made with tender assurance.

"You can stay."

Words offered quietly took her by surprise, but the need before her was obvious. Isobel squeezed Mary's shoulder, fighting back the tears cresting at the cusp as she nodded firmly.

"He did have something quite particular that he wanted me to tell you," Isobel wavered, wondering if a direct word from Matthew would be helpful or destructive. She hesitated, waiting for a reaction.

Mary braced herself, seeing with startling clarity his face before her, sensing the exquisite softness of golden hair wafting between her fingers, closing her eyes as the past and present merged in a manner most profound. She breathed it all in, clasping him physically to her chest before turning her attention back to Isobel.

"Tell me."

Mrs. Crawley paused, her mouth suddenly dry as the statement's magnitude took root.

"He said that he could never despise you."

A lip quivered, eyes sealing themselves against the force of pressing tears. Words deserted Mary, an almost imperceptible nod her sole acceptance of this offering. She could manage no more.

Isobel exited the room, giving Mary some needed privacy after the ordeal of exposing so much. Her own nerves were raw, her soul weary yet full as she dared to think of the road before them. But too much was at stake to even consider backing down now.

How welcome was the wall against her back, how thankful she was for its steadiness and coolness of texture. She shut her eyes firmly, seeing Matthew's broken body, sensing Mary's broken spirit. Yet between the two there existed something of exquisite beauty, untouched by the hurt that had marred them, perfected in a breath-taking wonder. Her attention was commanded by yet another sob from the room, this one low and guttural, the unmistakable cry of a woman in pieces attempting to hold herself together for one she loved more than herself.

And Isobel knew that this precious new life, just days old and so very small, would now be latched on to her breast, resting in utter contentment as his mother fell slowly apart. 

 

 


	5. Chapter 5

Just how long they had been travelling, she honestly could not say. But every click of motion across tracks supporting them, every vibration of wheels pulsing beneath her feet resounded one fact:

They were drawing closer to Downton.

She sat peering out of the window, watching the landscape dart past as the train moved steadily forward. Yet she saw nothing, absorbed by the awareness of the small life nestled warmly in her lap, horribly unsure of their impending final destination. The pounding of her heart had not stilled since dawn's insistent arrival, nerves trailing her about like a pesky stray canine. She would have forsaken breakfast all together had Isobel not been so insistent, gently reminding her just how ill she would become later when her son robbed her body of needed nourishment in order to partake of his own.

Adults may forget to eat, she had been instructed. But children do not.

She hadn't the will to argue over it, her mind overly occupied with thoughts of the day before her. It was rather daunting, actually, returning to Downton in the role of an unwed mother. This was not the expected fate of the daughter of an earl. No, bearing a child out of wedlock happened to scullery maids, or to the butcher's daughter, possibly to a well-born girl if one of her parents were foreign or rather eccentric. It was not supposed to have happened to her, the eldest daughter whose advantageous marriage was to have secured her sisters' futures. But it had. And here she sat.

Her head began to ache as she envisioned seeing her father, speaking with her grandmother… facing him. It wasn't just seeing him again that was so unsettling, it was that she would see him injured. What would that do to her, to actually confront him when he was unable to stand in her presence? How would he feel about what she had to say when he could no longer feel his own legs? Would she be able to reveal to him things hidden, knowing how their knowledge would tear at a man already broken? Yet he had broken a part of her, splintered her into so many fragments that the mere effort to reassemble them seemed too daunting to even attempt. But an attempt had to be made, even if the resulting creation was hideously fractured and lacking in refinement. For she was no longer alone.

Details had been arranged between Cora and Isobel, as little laid upon Mary's shoulders as possible at the insistence of both women. She knew that they were to meet her mother at Crawley house where privacy was more easily ensured and reputations more readily guarded. At least her initial re-entrance into the village would be fairly subdued, her mother and Isobel still the only people who knew the full measure of her predicament. But that would change within moments of their arrival. Word would spread quickly, perhaps through a servant, perhaps via a neighbor noticing more than she should and construing the rest. No matter how it began, the end result would be the same. She would be branded a lady of easy virtue, a title she had owned privately for years, no matter the bravado displayed for the benefit of the few privy to sordid details.

She had already resigned herself to censure, to condemnation, knowing just how she would be viewed by those around her. A social pariah. Such labels she would somehow shoulder, would attempt to shut out of her consciousness as best she could and move on with as much dignity as could be mustered. Yet the thought of her child living under such notoriety, being seen as somehow less worthy or impure--this she could not stomach.

The baby stirred against her, nuzzling closer to the protection of her breast as he slept. She stared at him in a wonder still foreign, amazed at how something so small could demand so very much. Her fingers whispered across the fair down of his head, cradling close this little person who had done absolutely nothing for her yet had commanded her heart from the moment he entered her life. She had been prepared to resent him as she had during her pregnancy, to fear his presence, to experience the need to escape this responsibility thrust upon her as she had often wished to discard the confines of her life. But to love him with a passionate ferocity she still found quite terrifying… this was unexpected.

His first cry had brought tears of unprecedented relief, the worries of life ahead of them overcome by the wonder of life itself. The sensation of new skin cradled against her own, of witnessing the first breaths of this being who had dwelled inside of her had engulfed her in a manner unknown. She was a new person now, her existence no longer her own but a lifeline for this tiny human who would know her as no one else ever had.

As his mother.

The title still felt odd, like a dress that did not quite fit or shoes that rubbed uncomfortably. She had always assumed that a certain amount of knowledge would accompany entrance into that mystic realm of motherhood, that certain questions would be answered intrinsically, that a mantle of assurance would somehow be draped upon one's shoulders. She could not have been more wrong.

He stirred slightly, puckerd lips moving in a sucking motion even as he slept. She could not help but rub his cheek, draw him closer, inhale his scent that calmed her as nothing else in her life could. He was beautiful, so like his father yet a separate person altogether. And when his soft head rested trustingly on her chest, when a tiny nose would burrow in closer, when cobalt eyes would open and gaze at her as if he already knew exactly who she was to him, she felt her heart both swell and shatter at the same moment.

Was this how it was for every mother? Had it been this way for her own?

He was so very helpless, yet she felt even more so, despising herself knowing that she would be the cause of blame and censure for a small life who knew no sin. How cruel that children should be marked by the trespasses of their parents, as if they had any say in the choices made by adults who should have known better. Her shame was her own—not his. Never his. She shuddered, such thoughts chilling her through her coat, and she held him even closer, guarding him as best she could, knowing with a sickening twist in her stomach that it would never be enough.

"Calm yourself, Mary. There is no need to work yourself into a frenzy before we even arrive." Isobel's words cut through her musings, forcing her to turn her head from the mindless scenery flashing past her window.

"Easier said than done," Mary stated flatly, looking to this woman who had quickly become so vital to her life. She honestly wasn't sure how well she would have borne up over the past few weeks had it not been for the presence and watch-care of Matthew's mother.

"I know this is quite daunting for you, my dear, and I'd be lying if I told you that you won't have any difficulties before you," Isobel returned, laying a hand gently on Mary's arm. "But you won't have to face them alone. Of that, I can assure you."

Mrs. Crawley had become quite her champion, assuring her repeatedly that she and Matthew were by far not the only couple to become premature parents, especially during a time of war. She had questioned her only once about Pamuk, and Mary had related the incident with a blunt honesty, observing Isobel purse her lips together in silence until she had run out of words. She had then sealed her eyes, tensing her shoulder in preparation for the harsh impact of words of reprimand and censure. But what she received nearly knocked her to her knees.

_My dear girl, I am so sorry you had to endure that. How brave you have been all these years._

Brave? The mere word had left her thunder-struck. Had she been truly brave, she would have screamed. Had she the courage, she would have told Matthew the truth of her circumstances after he had proposed. No—bravery was beyond her, she feared, pushed out of the way in order to accommodate uncertainty, vanity, and the basic will to survive. Only the noble were brave, and she harbored no claim to such aspirations.

"All will work out in the end, Mary. You must allow yourself to believe that."

Must she? Isobel was certain that Matthew would love the baby instantly, would want to do the right thing by both of them. But Mary feared it would not be that easy, wasn't even certain of what the right thing would be in such a disjointed situation as they had created. Mrs. Crawley had not witnessed the flash of horror in his eyes as bodies had merged, had not felt the blistering accusation of words thrown with the intention to strike. She had not shivered at the blast of winter's air rushing across naked skin as the door was effectively shut to any future they might have. No, the gaping wounds they both now bore were still as tender as they moment they were inflicted, and a forced marriage under such circumstances... she could not even envision it.

Would he ever see past that moment of realization, that second when her life became a shell as he saw her in the manner she most feared? And could she move past the image of his back, bare and faceless, the only part of him of which he deemed her worthy after her secret became known? She honestly did not know. And she was not at all certain that the answer would do either of them any good.

* * *

 

"Matthew."

He turned his head, refusing to move the wheels of his bloody chair in silent protest to its confines.

"Cousin Cora. How nice to see you."

His voice matched the dullness of his eyes. Her visit was rather unexpected, quite honestly, as Lady Grantham seemed to have been avoiding him purposefully for weeks on end. At first, Matthew had suspected his injury, that his paralysis simply made the countess too uncomfortable, or perhaps his condition embarrassed her as an anointed heir of Downton who could be out-walked by a toddler. Robert seemed to be bearing up all right, but perhaps her female sensibilities were rather more affected by his injury.

He then sighed in defeat, shaking his head at his legalistic need to formulate a reason for her noticeable absence. What did it matter? He couldn't blame her for staying away. Why would anyone seek out his company? He had nothing to offer anymore.

"How are you, Matthew?" There was an intensity to her stare that did not match the soft lilt of her voice. The contrast made him swallow uncomfortably.

"Right as rain, just as one would expect." She did not bat an eye at the deliberate sarcasm, pursing her lips slightly as she stepped in his direction.

"I'm glad to hear it. If there is anything I can do to make your recovery any smoother, you must let me know." Her gaze did not waver, and Matthew had a disjointed notion that she meant just the opposite.

"Thank you, Cousin Cora, but let me assure you that my every need is being well met."

"I am relieved." She smiled, yet she didn't, drawing closer even as he felt the distinct confines of an impenetrable wall rise up between them. Then it struck him, paralysis gripping him in yet another manner: Had Mary confided in her mother? Oh, God. Did Cora actually know? Clammy palms gripped the arms of his chair, this device that now served as his legs, bracing himself for nothing more than what he most readily deserved.

"Is there something you need from me?"

Her eyes narrowed yet another fraction at his inquiry, the smile that wasn't vanishing as if it had never existed.

"Your mother called a while ago," she began, drawing his attention at this unexpected news. "She would like to have you driven to Crawley house later this afternoon to meet with her."

Transported? To Crawley House?

"I'm sorry, I'm afraid I don't understand," he returned, shaking his head slightly. "Why wouldn't she just come here? Maneuvering me from one place to another requires a bit of effort these days." He hated the self-pity that permeated his tone, but it was all he had. If he let it go, he was overcome with grief, shame, and a self-loathing that would wither his bones into nothing but brittle ashes. Better to be frozen in self-pity rather than alive to a slow death.

"Your mother has been travelling quite a distance, Matthew, and would prefer the luxury of being in her own home," Cora stated flatly, a hidden layer of accusation leering at him through her tone. "And I'm certain that you would enjoy a break from Downton. Surely these walls must get a bit confining for you. I cannot imagine just how utterly dreadful it would feel to be cut off from the people I love, afraid to venture out into the world around me." The remark sliced him open, her weapon of choice quickly concealed in a half-smile that chilled his spine. But she had not finished. "Always afraid of what people truly thought."

He now harbored no doubts. Lady Grantham was fully aware of what had taken place between him and her daughter. And she had just declared him guilty as charged.

"Are you that anxious to be rid of me?" She actually did smile at this remark, the chilling smile of Nemesis herself bearing divine retribution in her wake.

"No. I'm anxious for you to wake up."

She turned and left him then, rendering him as shaken as he had felt in the trenches. His heart pulsed rapidly at the sudden understanding that there were things hidden lying in wait, unseen consequences yet to be administered. Beads of sweat dotted his forehead, and he could once again smell the smoke of battle, the stench of death sickening him as his hands began to tremble. He closed his eyes, trying to block it out, to see nothing but her…but Mary.

His eyes shot open. Even she convicted him, as she had every right to do.

He had held his own happiness in his arms, cherishing the miracle of it but fleetingly before discarding it as he would soiled clothing. And why? Because its details were not as he had always imagined? Because for one cursed moment in time, he had given himself permission to believe himself her superior?

"You damned fool."

Words of accusation thrown at himself struck with a dull thud, hitting a shell of a man who had neither the hope nor ability to even attempt to right what he had so wronged. Perhaps Mary was getting on well in America. He prayed she was happy, hoped she had been able to lay what was his shame aside and hold her head high as she deserved to do. He clutched his hands tightly in his lap, attempting to squelch the tremors, hanging his head at his own bloody self-righteousness. Mary was lucky to be rid of him, would have every right to fling him aside without a second glance if their paths ever crossed again. Without him, she stood a chance of building a life for herself, one free of shackles that would chain her to a man now no more than a burden. His body slumped in his chair, the weight of utter defeat pulling him under.

Nothing could help him now.

* * *

They had arrived. Oh, dear God.

She could not will her feet to move, nor instruct her legs to hold her upright. Her mind was numb, heart frantic, breathing stilled. In fact the only parts of her body that seemed to be functioning properly were arms that pressed her son even tighter against her shoulder as she stared disembodied through a glass barrier. Isobel stood resolutely, offering her a tight smile, a nod of encouragement.

"Here we are. Are you ready?" She could only shake her head at the reality awaiting her.

"No. But that really doesn't matter, does it."

Eyes looking back at her were compassionate but honest in their wordless reply. She finally managed it, willing her spine to straighten, her gaze to focus and cut. The softness of his head met with trembling lips as she resolutely stepped into an old life bound by new confines. She looked at no one, walking in silence as she sheltered her bundle closer, ever closer to her. Then her path was interrupted, her steps hijacked by a face she both dreaded and welcomed. She felt every limb liquefy at once, drawing her first full breath in what felt like days. And she sank into her mother's ready embrace, pinpricks of moisture gathering in her lashes.

"Oh, Mary. My Mary."

There was something new here between them, an understanding birthed with her child and nurtured at her breast. A translucent connection had been spun through the passing of her own lifeblood into another, fastened securely by the reality of seeing her very heart dwell outside the constraints of flesh and bone.

"Mama."

The boy blinked as the tears of his grandmother dripped onto his cheek, a hand until now unknown resting gently on his head as another held fast to his mother's shoulder. This physical binding blazed into her bones, its power almost divine to a soul deprived of the touch of family.

"Come, now. Let's get you two to Crawley House."

They moved with efficiency, stopping for neither greetings nor inquiries, thankful that the station was sparsely populated at this time of day. The car awaited them, ready to bear them to their destination in absolute discretion.

"Welcome home, my lady."

She turned abruptly into the direct gaze of Tom Branson, expecting a sneer masked in his expression, a nose upturned or a knowing look. But his sincere smile nearly buckled her legs as its warmth infused her chest inexplicably.

"Thank you, Branson. I'm afraid we cannot stay for very long."

"More's the pity, then."

Unexpected.

She nodded in turn, sliding into the car carefully with her charge. A sense of protection engulfed her as she sat surrounded by those who cared despite her circumstances. And a rising fierceness began to push up from bitter roots, the steel resolve of her grandmother flooding veins in need of reinforcements. She would protect her son somehow. She would find a way for him, no matter how it stretched her, no matter what it demanded. Her heart thudded painfully as she swallowed down misgivings.

And she sought desperately for the strength to face his father.

* * *

 

"I don't understand."

Matthew sat immobile allowing Bates to finish the fine details deemed necessary for an outing to his own home.

"What's there to understand? Your mother would like to see you."

Matthew sighed in limp frustration, utterly convinced that he was being manipulated to an end unseen. And his mother was evidently the chief engineer in this plot, a fact that kept poking at him uncomfortably. He had not seen her in weeks, her rather hasty exit from Downton explained as an urgent need to tend to the wounded. It had baffled him, quite honestly, that she would so willingly toss his injuries aside in favor of nursing soldiers unknown. He had been rather speechless at her announcement, unable to formulate an intelligent question to ascertain exactly what had prompted such a decision. He had been more than a little hurt.

"She can just as easily see me here with much less inconvenience to everyone," he retorted, wearing his foul mood as a badge of courage.

"I should think you might like to get away from Downton for a bit," Bates responded unflinchingly, making final adjustments to Matthew's shoes. "You might just enjoy some time at home."

Mortification again engulfed him as he viewed ministrations he could not feel. Useless.

"There's nothing for me out there, Bates. Not anymore." His voice was the texture of sandpaper, his shoulders bowed in resignation.

"Then I would suggest that perhaps you haven't looked hard enough." A chuckle without mirth escaped him, and he rubbed his upper lip in frustration.

"Looking further would do me no good. I am cursed, you see. Cursed by my own bloody thoughtlessness."

Bates paused a moment, thinking loudly enough in the heavy silence to command Matthew's attention.

"If I may, sir, misfortune is not necessarily a curse. But it can open our eyes to what's truly important if we allow it."

The assertion caught his attention, snapping him into an alert stance as he replayed Cora's words from earlier. _I'm anxious for you to wake up._ What was there for him to wake up to, exactly? A life devoid of function? Bearing the distinctive title of the heir who would never have an heir? Or more honestly a man who didn't deserve a family.

"Well, you're certainly welcome to your opinion." His gut clenched at his own statement, wincing at the pathetic heap he had become. The truth was, he wasn't even certain he wanted to face his own mother, wondering just how much longer he could play out this charade before she discovered the distasteful truth about her only child. What a gaping disappointment she would face. God, how he hated himself. How could anyone else feel otherwise?

* * *

 

Mary stared upon a world familiar yet unknown, almost as if the village itself had been taken apart stone by stone and re-crafted into the backdrop of a Greek tragedy brought to life. She herself had been thrust into the role of tragic heroine, she supposed, the script penned by her own hand and sealed with her life's blood. She had been her own downfall, her own Achilles heel, rendering her broken cause quite hopeless, indeed.

No—the time to repair her own muddled life had run out months ago. She must now focus solely on her son.

Branson pulled them as close to the back entrance of Crawley House as possible, as far from eager glances as he could maneuver. They emerged into the sunlight, autumn's nippy breath chilling her neck as she clutched his blanketed form closer. Her mother and Isobel had nearly reached the door, solidifying plans into an orderly fashion that even now seemed too overwhelming for her desperate mind to grasp.

"May I, Lady Mary?" His voice startled her again, and she looked to the concerned face of the chauffeur, taken aback by his personal request and unsure of how best to answer. A slow nod finally voiced her consent in silence, and she drew back his protective blanket, revealing a bundle of pink skin and inky eyes to Branson's watchful gaze. "He's beautiful."

He was, she knew it, yet to hear it from someone so utterly unconnected to her filled her with a small measure of pride.

"Thank you." Her skirts fluttered in a gust of wind, prompting her to cover her treasure from watchful eyes as their own met silently.

"Good luck, my lady. I wish you both the best. Truly."

She gave him a small smile, all she could manage, and remained where she stood as he returned to the car and drove it from her sight. She knew well his destination and the passenger he would carry back into her life within an hour's time. One hour's time.

It suddenly felt like January.

* * *

 

He was assisted into the vehicle, embarrassed by the floppy nature of his lower limbs as he tried to overcompensate with his arms, adjusting his own body after the initial transfer had been complete.

"Thank you, Branson." He received a curt nod, a glance that lingered longer than necessary, and he wondered again just what actually lay in store for him, concealed within the walls of his own address. The journey was pointless, nothing but a painful reminder of a life that had slipped through fingers held too loosely. He stared at the tree, tearing his eyes from the very place he had foolishly withdrawn his proposal when she had beckoned him to listen, pleaded with him to hear. Instead he had walked away, too bound by his own anger to see what lay hidden in her heart.

If he had stayed, would she have told him then?

The words had never been spoken, but he knew it to be true all the same. She had delayed her answer out of fear, a fear of how he would respond to her admission of a specter from a past she regretted. How well-acquainted he was with regret. He lived immersed in its sticky talons, skin puckered and clammy by its continual absorption into overly-saturated pores.

What would he have said to her had things been different that day? Had she told him the truth? Had he the courage to stand his ground and look her in the eye rather than turn his back and flee her presence? Would they now be married, possibly raising a child, holding on to each other in this uncertain world thrust upon them? Or would he have rejected her as he had in that cabin? The most probable answer chilled his intestines, constricting blood flowing to his extremities as his fingers became ice. He felt devoid of all warmth.

He could not escape her, her essence etched into every street, her image sketched upon every corner, the details of her seared into his pupils. No matter where he glanced, there she stood, hair disheveled, eyes bleeding, trembling hands covering herself in a blanket they had just shared, watching him reject her after marking her intimately. The house was now in sight, and he became aware of eyes continually observing him through the mirror's revealing surface.

"Can I help you, Branson?"

"No, sir." The response was quick, too quick, actually, raising more questions than it put to rest.

"Is there something wrong? There must be a reason for you to keep glancing back in my direction."

The chauffeur cleared his throat, remaining silent until he pulled the car into position in front of the house.

"I just hope you find what it is you're looking for."

He could not help the painful sound that escaped him, shaking his head at the very thought that there was something yet for him worth finding.

"I'm afraid you misunderstand, Branson. I am looking for nothing."

The subdued chuckle that met him took him by surprise as Branson turned his face to meet him head on.

"Then something's bound to find you."

Guilt crushed his ribs, the pain of those last moments with her cutting him open yet again with cold precision.

"In that case, let's just hope it's swift and merciful."

* * *

 

She heard the car door close, knew he had arrived, yet she could not bring herself to look out the window. His son rested on her shoulder, his hunger sated as heavy eyelids pattered shut. She absorbed the grace afforded her by simply rubbing his back, kissing his head, relishing this continual warmth born from a black void.

The front door creaked open, voices travelling through walls, traipsing up stairs, wrapping themselves around chilled feet as she heard him. Him. She sealed her eyes to the room around her, attempting to block out any reality save the one snuggled against her ribs.

But it was useless. He was here. God help her. He was here. And her moment of truth was approaching all too quickly.

* * *

 

 "Mother."

Her greeting was both a balm to his spirit and a knife to his gut, relishing the utter love found in her embrace even as he felt guilty receiving it.

"My boy. My dear, dear boy." She was beaming at him, her smile almost too radiant to his gaze. The quiver of her chin alerted him, a flash of something he could not name in her eyes making him wonder. "How well you look, Matthew. I cannot get over the improvement." She was lying, she had to be. How could anyone call this existence an improvement?

"You are too kind, mother." The deadness of his tone caught her attention, and she stared at him fixedly.

"No. No I am not. And at the end of the day, I hope you will thank me for it."

She stared hard at him for a moment before turning to leave, his jaw gaping at what had most assuredly been the most unusual encounter he had ever experienced with his mother. He returned his gaze to the window, wondering just what he was doing here, why it had mattered so much that she meet him here if their conversation was going to consist of five sentences.

But then again, did it really matter?

* * *

 

The baby had been entrusted to her mother, and she managed a last fleeting glance into the mirror. Isobel's presence had certainly worked wonders, the additional rest it had afforded returning a measure of color to cheeks that had been sunken and pale. She touched her coiffed hair, tracing small lines around her eyes before gently touching her breasts. These were the one marked change that remained, their fullness still a bit discomforting to her. Would he notice them right away? How would he react to her presence at all?

There was no use in delaying this agony any longer, she supposed, her feet taking their first steps in this journey back towards the man she both loved and hated, one who had nearly stripped her of her own life while entrusting her with another. The air seemed to thicken as she drew closer, questions pressing in on her until breathing was longer an unconscious action.

He heard steps approaching, the click of heels alerting him that it was most assuredly his mother returning to resume their conversation left unfinished. Perhaps now he would receive some answers, although the cinching in his gut continually questioned just how welcome they would be.

She halted just before the door, resting her hand upon its smooth panels as her forehead touched its surface. Her stomach clenched, her palms began to sweat, saliva coating her throat as she fought down the urge to become ill.

The steps halted, yet no one emerged. He looked towards the door, wondering just what was keeping her, becoming more nervous at what awaited him with each moment that passed. His hand began to shake.

A swallow was forced, a calming breath attempted. But nothing could soothe her when he sat just in the next room. Just in the next room…

He closed his eyes and saw her again, foolishly wishing she would appear before him here, to grant him the opportunity to beg for her forgiveness. Yet how could that happen when she was an ocean away?

She fisted her hands in determination, knowing this delay would accomplish nothing. It was time.

He had been such a coward. He at least owed her a letter absolving her from all wrong doing. It was time.

She could do this. This was for her son.

He would do this. This was for Mary.

_God help me._

_God forgive me._

And the door finally opened.


	6. Chapter 6

Mary's feet seemed to hover over the floor, her body somewhat suspended as she stepped into the room's suddenly restrictive confines. She could hear nothing but a deafening roar in her ears, keeping her focus steadily honed even as she swallowed down sharp pangs of panic. Could she even feel her body as it led her slowly forward? Ever closer to uncertainty...

Ever closer to him.

Matthew.

There he sat, bound to a chair, head bowed in what she recognized as a stance of defeat. This broken form was not the same man to whom she had given everything, yet it was. She wanted to comfort him, hold him, hurt and despise him, fall weeping into his arms, turn and never see him again. Yet she somehow could not move. How in God's name was she supposed to do this?

Mary forced her eyes to remain open, willed numbed feet not to flee from the room as she took him in, continually reminding herself to breathe steadily. His back was to her, but it was no less of a blow. Yes—his back—glaring at her just as it had been when he purposefully withdrew himself from her body and her life. But different, for this spine had been injured, this man stripped of the existence he had should have known just as she had been stripped her of her own.

Dear God, how tragic they were, standing in this nightmare of their own creation, so close yet still unreachable.

She needed to see his eyes, yet feared their scrutiny all the same. The last time they had gaze upon her she had been branded and marked by their fury, reduced to a shroud of the woman she had been in one moment of realization. She could not allow that to happen again.

"So you're back." His voice rendered her immobile, her own breath sounding unnaturally loud to her ears as she stared at his body unmoving. He could not have seen her—his gaze remained fixed steadily out the window. "Perhaps now you will tell me why it was so incredibly important that I be brought here to see you."

This was not going well at all.

Her hands were trembling, feeling quite bereft without the comforting weight of her son. But she could not share him yet. There was too much to be said before a child was brought into this flammable realm of pent-up emotion. Suddenly his head inclined, yet his eyes strayed no closer, remaining attached to something out of her line of vision.

"For God's sake, mother, what sort of game is this? Why won't you answer me?" Her throat tightened uncomfortably, her lips and tongue pushing out reluctant words whose time had come.

"Hello, Matthew."

Her voice hit him with a force beyond comprehension. He first turned only his head in her direction, afraid of facing her fully lest this be a dream and she vanish into nothing. Yet for her to be here, to see him like this… tsee him at all.

"Mary?"

The very air in the room seemed to pause. His broken whisper nearly buckled her knees, yet she stood fixed, some unseen force continuing to restrict her movements as he began to turn his chair. He felt what life was left in him drain from his body, yet his heart was pounding at a merciless pace. His eyes blinked repeatedly, unwilling to believe what they were taking in, yet desperately terrified not to do so. How was this possible? Mary. Mary was here.

"What are you…I mean….you're supposed to be in America." The words stumbled from him, falling haplessly towards her in a tangled rush. She witnessed no anger, just blatant confusion staring back at her upon the face of a man who gazed upon her as if she were an apparition

. "No." Silence hung over them yet again. His brow creased further, utter incomprehension making speech nearly impossible as a hand ravaged his hair in need of something to grasp.

"But…but I don't understand." Somehow her legs carried her two steps forward, halting unsteadily lest she get too close. How ashen he looked, his skin tone too gray for her liking.

"I was never in America, Matthew. I just needed everyone to believe that I was." Her revelation struck him, heavy guilt forcing him to hang his head as her gaze became too much to bear.

"Because of me." Her ribs constricted, her palms began to sweat as she drew the deepest breath she could manage.

"Yes."

A shudder rocked his body as he shook his head mercilessly, finally mustering up the courage to look back at her in mortification.

"God, Mary. I'm so sorry." Her eyes closed of their own free will, something small releasing its grip on her as her insides continued to quiver. "I know that cannot even begin to make up for how I treated you, but I…I…." He buried his face in his hands, his shame too much for him to share as a slight tremor began anew in his hand. "I truly am."

She had to sit down, her legs becoming so unsteady she feared for a moment she might actually faint. She moved to the nearest chair, keeping her spine as straight as she could manage as she watched him crumble before her.

"So am I."

His face shot up at this, eyes rounding in a stupor as her words registered with a thud.

"No. No, Mary. You have nothing to apologize for. The fault was mine, all mine, and you must let me own it." The weight of the past several months pressed on him mercilessly. He could not allow her to carry one measure of guilt or responsibility, not when it all rested so squarely upon his shoulders. He may not be able to stand upright, but he could at least give her this. She then made direct eye contact, the connection between them so clear yet horribly strained, painful yet as necessary as air to her lungs.

"Some of it, yes. But not all."

His eyes flashed in determination, the first spark of spirit she had seen.

"Don't try to absolve me out of pity, Mary. Please." Her stare was penetrating, absorbing the uselessness of his legs, the abject pain he carried both physically and emotionally palpable to her from across the room. "I can take it from most people, but not from you."

The bite of bitterness in his voice scraped her, making her draw back from him slightly.

"I don't pity you, Matthew. But there have been times this year when I have hated you."

The tremor in his hand escalated, yet he pushed it down, shoving yet this other sign of weakness out of her line of vision as he made himself taste the sting of her words.

"I can't blame you. You have every right." He was defeated. Utterly and completely defeated.

His state tore at parts of her while others remained surprisingly numb. She suddenly did not feel like herself, but rather an impostor attempting to portray her, or perhaps a spirit disengaged from the confines of her body free to observe the difficult scene playing out to an unknown end.

"Why did you never contact me?" The words slid past her lips before she could call them back, this question that had pressed upon her finally given a voice. Her stomach dropped as he hung his head.

"I was too ashamed."

Her eyes bore witness to his stance, ascertaining the truth of his reply as its implications poked a sensitive area.

"Ashamed of being with me?" The shock on his face could not have been more genuine.

"No, never. Not that. Never that." He searched the ceiling, the walls, the floor, seeking the right words with a manic desperation. "I was and still am horribly ashamed of how I treated you, Mary. Of how I reacted when…" Here he broke off, understanding too late just how close he had drawn to the cliff's edge. Yet her eyes held his unflinchingly.

"When you discovered I was not a virgin." How her tone remained so steady, she truly did not know. But a cool precision had taken over, one she welcomed whole-heartedly even as she feared its tenure would be short-lived.

"That should not have mattered," he uttered softly, the pain in his eyes making her wince.

"But it did."

How he wished he could take back his reactions, rewind that fateful moment when he had brought about such destruction and hurt.

"Only because I was a jealous, self-righteous fool. I didn't even give you the chance to explain, to tell me what happened."

Her sigh was as heavy as her eyes.

"Would it have mattered? Would you have really wanted to know?"

There was something different about her, he then noticed, something in her appearance slightly altered yet difficult to pinpoint. Her skin bore a refinement, a marked translucence, and there was a depth of maturity to her expression he had never before seen. How had he ever walked away from her?

"I don't know." The bluntness of his reply hung uncomfortably between them. "But that was my folly, Mary, not yours. Never yours."

A noise escaped her, more than a grunt but not quite a laugh, commanding his attention.

"Yet had it not been for my past indiscretion, how different would things be between us now?"

He had asked himself this question more than he could remember, wondering what would have happened had their time together been her first with a man, if his pride had not been wounded in a most ironic fashion. They would be engaged, he was certain, possibly even married by this point. His blind stupidity had demanded a hefty price.

"I would have proposed. And not just because of what happened between us." The admission stung his throat.

Her legs pushed her from her seat, a restless energy releasing itself throughout her limbs as the implications of his admission sank in. They would have been married, she still at Downton, her pregnancy a cause for celebration, shared with her family and proudly announced to the village. Her son—their son—would have been legitimate, born into a stable home with both a mother and father. There would be no threat of censure, no looks of disdain. No question of whether or not he could ever succeed his father as heir. How much had been lost to her when she tossed away reason to flirt with a self-seeking man she found exciting? And how many times must she berate herself for that lapse of judgment?

"For God's sake, Matthew, why are we doing this to ourselves?" She was pacing now, her composure falling away from her at frustration's marked insistence. "We can't go back and undo what has been done, no matter how badly we might want to. Good or bad, aren't we stuck with the choices we've made?"

She was right. It was hopeless.

"I suppose we are." The resignation in his voice made her want to embrace and slap him simultaneously. Perhaps he had the luxury of giving up on life, but she had not been presented with such a choice. "But I'm still so very sorry for all of it. God, Mary, you have no idea."

He could never fully express it, the weight of shame he carried, the fire of conviction that still burned whenever he remembered pushing away from her. He had hoped that telling her might finally grant him some peace of mind, yet he was even more shattered than when he had arrived. He stared at her back, wondering just what was playing across her face that she was determined to keep hidden.

"I would have accepted you."

The unexpectedness of her response nearly knocked the wind from his lungs.

"What?" His startled inquiry lingered in the space between them.

"If you had proposed that afternoon, I would have accepted you. And not simply because of the fact that we were together." He licked his lips, filtering all of this through a suddenly overloaded mind as another question made itself known.

"When you didn't accept me the first time, all those years ago, was it because of this? Because of him?"

She turned to look at him, seeing a vulnerability that pulled at her too insistently for her own comfort. Her mouth was suddenly parched.

"Mostly. I didn't know how to tell you, and I couldn't accept you under false pretenses."

He held her gaze, steeling himself for the blow he fully anticipated.

"You were afraid of my reaction."

At first there was nothing. But the stillness was rent by a hesitant nod.

"I suppose it doesn't matter now." Her pronouncement had been no more than a whisper, yet it shook him with force.

"Of course it matters. It matters dreadfully because you matter, Mary. You should have been able to confide in me and to trust that I wouldn't judge you unfairly. And I proved myself to be the worst kind of man imaginable rather than one upon whom you could depend." Her heart seemed to still, her fingers frozen painfully. "Good God, I held you in my arms, I took you as my own, and I left you there alone without a word. What sort of monster does that make me?"

Her mind flashed back unwittingly to a contest of wills, a verbal sparring match over the dining table when they were so very young. How far away they had strayed from the innocence of sea monsters and the like.

"You're not a monster, Matthew."

He longed to accept her statement, but could not allow himself to do so. He was unworthy of such generosity.

"And what exactly separates me from such a status, may I ask?" She drew breath insistently, wrapping her arms about herself together tightly as she gave him her answer.

"You are capable of remorse." His laugh was brittle, his eyes distraught.

"A lot of good remorse does either of us at the moment." He swallowed down what pride he had remaining, staring back at her with unmitigated regret. "I didn't have the right to touch you in the first place, much less to take advantage of you as I did." Her sigh interrupted him, her steps returning her to her seat where they could sit eye to eye.

"You didn't take advantage of me, Matthew. I chose to be with you."

"But I should have known better and have treated you with more respect. Whether or not you consented should not have given me license to proceed. I still took advantage." She shook her head in denial.

"No, you didn't."

"How can you say that, Mary? How can you sit there and defend me?"

"Because I know the difference."

The admission escaped her before she realized its impact, watching his eyes widen and his hand shake uncontrollably.

"Oh, God. The Turk…did he…?" The sentence lodged in his throat, its missing words nearly choking him.

"No. Not like that." Why couldn't she bring herself to look at him?

"But you didn't…you didn't want…"

"I let him." Mortification stung her cheeks as if it had happened yesterday. Oh, why was this still so difficult? "I let him, you see, so there's really nothing more to discuss."

"Obviously there is." Her brows drew together in consternation.

"Why can't you leave this alone?"

The distress in her eyes mirrored an expression he had seen before and abandoned in a moment of anger. Never again would he leave her in such a state. Never again.

"Tell me. Please. It obviously matters to you." He then breathed deep sentiment openly into a room already heavy with emotion. "And you matter a great deal."

Her heart squeezed so painfully that breath was lost to her. Words from her past clawed at her skin as she saw herself again as the girl she was. She had thought herself so clever, so knowledgeable about life, yet she had been so vastly ignorant of realities beyond her sphere. Her chin quivered slightly, and she clasped her hands together tightly in an effort to hold herself together.

"What do you want to know?" He sat stunned, watching her struggle with demons as she laid herself open for his inspection. She had bared herself for him once before. He would cherish this gift as he should this time.

"Whatever you are comfortable telling me."

How could he do this to her again? Fortresses she had spent months constructing were crumbling as if they had been built of ash rather than stone. Was there no means of keeping Matthew Crawley away from her treacherous heart?

"None of this is exactly comfortable, Matthew." Eyes fastened upon each other yet again.

"I know."

She drew in air for courage, seeking the steadiness required to revisit an episode she preferred to leave buried.

"He showed up in my room. I asked him to leave, and he didn't. And then it just happened. That's why it didn't really matter, you see. I was ruined regardless of the choice I made." She recited the words as if reading them from a book, her eyes glued to her hands. Her masked vulnerability left him raw, seething with anger at the man who put her in such a position, and more wretchedly despising the man who had treated her even worse. "And then he died, and I didn't know what to do anymore."

He had died there—with her.

"God, Mary." His hand began to tremble uncontrollably, and he pushed it down with this other, tears of mortification and self-loathing stinging the back of his eyes. How could he have treated her in such a dismissive manner when she had accepted him in absolute trust? She had been with two men in her life: both had sought her out unbidden, and both left her grievously injured.

She watched his struggle, moved to pain by the plight of his hands. Her heart flew uncomfortably into her throat as she stretched out her arm in his direction, daring to touch him for the first time since they had explored each other in private intimacy. The pressure of her own hand atop his released something inside of him, breaking through glass barriers of apathy and touching the man he had been before. The man who had loved her, had drowned in her kisses, had caressed her in a reverent wonder with her name on his lips. He was still there, too wounded to stand alone yet too ashamed to retreat from her again.

A lone tear finally broke free from its confines, trailing down his cheek as his rough declaration shook her.

"You're the bravest woman I know, Mary."

She shook her head in denial of both his words and the staggering effects of his brokenness.

"No. Just stubborn."

An airy chuckle actually wracked his chest, pushing out another tear as the first hints of a smile found their way to his face.

"I believe we can both claim our fair share of that trait, unfortunately." They sat in silence, still uncomfortable yet somehow familiar, the cores of themselves reaching out with trembling fingers through layers of hurt and doubt. "But I mean it, truly. You are a wonderful woman—a storm-braver if ever I saw one."

The soft timbre of his voice wafted over her, offering a shred of hope even as she feared taking hold of it.

"It's rather ironic, you know. Your mother basically said the same thing." A splash of reality soaked through at her remark, the knowledge that his mother was privy to all that had transpired between them giving his vision a sickening clarity.

"She knows, doesn't she?" There was really no question here, only the acceptance of a man truly ashamed of what he had done.

"Yes. She knows everything." Her grip on him tightened as the shaking increased, his head bowing once again as he accepted what was only inevitable.

"She's the one who brought you back."

A nod, a glimpse, then a simple confirmation.

"Yes."

He pursed his lips together firmly, sniffing back tears unshed as his gaze met hers again.

"It's funny, you know, I have these memories of asking mother to find you, but they are so very muddled, almost like I dreamed the entire conversation. And when she actually left, I really had no idea that she was seeking you out." She digested what he told her in complete stillness.

"Are you sorry that she did?" His eyes widened in horror at the mere suggestion.

"God, no. Of course not." He licked his lips repeatedly, his agitation evident as he beckoned her to believe him. "I've been wanting to see you for so long, Mary, to apologize. I needed to at least attempt to right what I have wronged." Her lashes fluttered shut, sealing in his words, drinking in the knowledge that this meeting was not entirely forced upon him before his next question called her out. "Why did you come back, Mary? Why would you ever want to see me again?"

He was moving in closer, nearing areas more sensitive than even he knew.

"You were injured. I had to see you." She blinked twice at her cowardice, simply not yet ready to step into the realm which would ultimately define all of their futures.

"It's not a pretty sight, is it?" He was retreating again, she felt it, drawing himself into the chair and away from the man to whom she had bound herself inextricably.

"It's not an ugly one, either." She caught him by surprise, her tone even and her gaze honest.

"I'm useless. What sort of future can I possibly offer to Downton, to you, or to anyone like this?"

"You're alive, Matthew. And your mind is perfectly sound."

The logic of her statement simply heightened his frustration, unable to see past the confines of his chair into this different world she seemed to visualize so clearly.

"It's not the same."

"Nothing is the same. Surely you realize that." The edge in her tone stilled him, and he watched her struggle with something yet hidden. "Why did you break things off with Lavinia?" This she had to know before she took the final step. His cheeks actually colored as his brows knit themselves together.

"I couldn't marry her. Not after what we had shared." His choice of words snapped something inside of her, stoking a fire to coals left simmering too long.

"Shared? After what we shared?" Dear God, not tears, not now. They were pulsing behind her eyelids, demanding she take notice, crying out for release.

"Mary, I—"

"How can you call it that when you walked away from me Matthew?" Her words struck with force, pent-up anger finally unleashed in full. "I couldn't move after you left me. Did you know that? I just sat there on that bed, trying to believe what had just happened, wondering if you would come back." She was crumbling, disintegrating, all semblance of control lost as months of despair and uncertainty toppled down on her at once. She could feel the numbness, the shock, the horror as if it had just happened, remembering how the snow seemed to mock her as it descended in such unhurried peace. "I waited, you know. For a letter, for a telegram, anything to give me either hope or closure. And then I couldn't wait any longer, it became impossible for me to stay at Downton."

She had not meant to do this, to lash out at a man already defeated with such animosity. But her insides were heaving, the weeks of desperation and abject loneliness cutting to the bone.

"I know. I have no viable excuse for my actions other than that I was a complete coward."

God, he was bleeding before her, yet she couldn't stop. Her chest began to heave, and she turned her head from him as the dam of silence was dismantled.

"I wasn't given that option, Matthew. I couldn't avoid what we had done. I had to face it and make some rather difficult decisions."

"Like ending your engagement to Richard."

His words nearly sounded foreign to her ears, so far from the truth yet what he would naturally assume.

"No. That was one of the easier things I had to do." That admission surprised him and he studied her again, wanting so badly to reach out to her yet knowing it was the last thing she would ever want.

"You didn't love him?" His question seemed so irrelevant, yet she knew he needed an answer.

"No."

"Then why marry him?"

"Because he would have me. And you were promised to Lavinia."

Her words struck him again. She had already been living in a compromised position, feeling as though her prospects for a good marriage were few and only getting slimmer. And why? Because he had withdrawn his proposal, gone off to war, become engaged to another woman and then led her along a winding trail peppered with kisses and longing glances he had convinced himself were one-sided.

"I never loved her, you know." She wasn't certain she could hear this, bracing herself for whatever came next. "Not like I loved you."

Her eyes sought him—glassy and wounded—yet needing the understanding only he could offer. She swallowed a sob, covering her mouth to prevent an ungodly noise from tearing out of her.

"How can people who love each other keep hurting each other so terribly?" Her question was ragged, scraped from her throat in the throes of raw emotion. Yet he had no answer for her, wishing all of their past could be burned to ash and they allowed to start anew.

"Perhaps we are cursed, you and I."

Her arms flew around her abdomen, recalling her abject hopelessness the morning she realized her courses had been missed yet again, finally acknowledging other symptoms for what they actually were. She remembered her surprise the first time she felt him stir, recalling the small jostling within when he had the hiccups. She closed her eyes and smelled his precious scent, the wonder of him flooding her with at least one overwhelming certainty in this situation.

"No. You mustn't say that."

"But look at me, Mary. If this is not a fitting penance for what I've done then I don't know what is." She stared at him hard, attempting to erect at least a semblance of a barrier to emotions that had just been given free reign.

"This is no punishment from God, Matthew, it's the aftermath of war. And I would never wish anything like this upon you, no matter how badly I've been hurt."

An uneasy stillness returned, his hand suddenly settled even as his mind swirled rampantly.

"I know that. And I could never blame you for this." They stared at each other, both at a loss of what further to say, aware that more was needed yet uncertain of how to begin. He cleared his throat softly, knowing he had to let her go, whatever honor he had left compelling him to free her from feeling any sort of misguided responsibility towards him. "I do only hope that one day you will be able to forgive me."

His words settled on her heavily, nudging her towards what was necessary as her tongue seemed to thicken in her mouth.

"I have to forgive you, Matthew." Hurt shone on his face in a fractured transparency, his eyes shutting in refusal to what she had said.

"No, Mary, you don't have to do anything. I don't want your forgiveness out of any sense of obligation or duty. I will only accept it when it is of your own free will and nothing less. You are free to live your life and leave me to what's left of mine. I want you to go with my blessings and know that there is nothing in this world that I desire more than to see you happy." He was shaking, the release and weight of what he had just offered her overwhelming them both resolutely. He watched her struggle, her face constricting in manner that pained him to view. She finally breathed heavily, commanding his full attention with a gaze that demanded it.

"But I do have to forgive you. And you must understand why."

Then she left.

He remained quiet as she turned from him, staring at her back, watching her walk away from him without another word of explanation. His mind reeled from the blatant justice of it, even though he now knew that even if by some miracle his body ever healed, he would never be whole again. She was a part of him, had become so that day he had entered her body and soul in the cabin. And he had wrenched them apart, heaving them into this life of torment to which they had both been banished. He would not call her back, not when she needed to be released from the confines to which he had been sentenced.

He turned back to the window, staring at nothing as the last remnants of her slipped through his fingers. He could not look when the door opened again, not able to stand the disappointment of what he was certain was his mother when he longed for only her. This was better for Mary, he knew, a life apart from him, a life with someone who could give her a future. Someone who could give her children. He was in no mood for further company at the moment, palms balling into fists in a small show of defiance for all that this life had dealt him.

"Please leave me. I haven't anything more to say." But encroaching footfalls ignored his plea, only firing his determination not to look back in remembrance.

"I can't leave you. Not yet."

Mary.

His pupils actually focused at the sound of her voice, noticing the bird that had surely been sitting upon the windowsill for some time even though he had been blind to its existence.

"You don't have to do this, Mary."

"Yes, I do."

There was then a sound out of place, a stirring, a whimper, one he could not reconcile with either his location or circumstances. His mind sought to identify it, but the answer given had no place here…with Mary….with them.

Oh, God.

He turned, finally, the picture standing so clearly before him etched in details seemingly from another world. He swallowed forcibly, the urgent question unmistakable as his eyes sought hers in desperation. She moved towards him slowly, deliberately, watching for a reaction—any reaction besides the shock staring back at her open-mouthed. At last she reached him, lowering the child gently, laying him in his father's trembling hands for the first time.

"I do have to forgive you, Matthew," she managed, her voice heavy as her glance flickered between the pair of them. His eyes pleaded with her, the tremor in his chin more than she could bear. She swallowed down the remainder of her fear, stroking the child's head in a gesture to soothe herself as a small gurgle of contentment was voiced between them.

"For him, you see. For our son." 


	7. Chapter 7

_Our son._

The reality resounded in his conscious mind, yet he could not begin to reconcile the enormity of it.

A son—he had a son.

Impossible, unthinkable, more than he could possibly take in, yet this…this… this baby in his arms—his son. Mary's son.

Oh, Mary.

He gazed at her in wonder, unobserved as she kept her eyes fixed firmly to the infant, his heart shattering yet again as a tear fell from her lashes prompting her to sniff back another. A small noise drew his attention, and he extended a finger down slowly to touch, to see again, to make certain. Our son. This tiny, perfect human squirming within his grasp was his. Theirs.

How was this possible?

It was so much more than he deserved, too wonderful to believe, too horrifying to contemplate. Yet there knelt Mary before him, watching over them both, stroking the child's head with a love most sacred as she caressed his soft cheek. This perfect little being had come into existence through an act of love gone horribly wrong, conceived on an afternoon he had been attempting to chase from his memory with a vehemence. Could something so beautiful truly be birthed from his own stupidity and ego?

"Say something, Matthew."

Her plea was barely a whisper, and for the first time he noticed the slight trembling in her own hands. He wanted to assure her, to appease her worries, yet speech seemed no more tangible than the ability to stand, his tongue thickening to the point where he could barely swallow.

"I know this must come as a horrible shock."

Shock? Her observation was logical, yet somehow not right. He couldn't comprehend it all properly, was unsure exactly what to think, yet shock seemed to be such an inappropriate term for what was now looking up at him with trusting eyes of an ambiguous color. He had experienced shock when he received the notice from Lord Grantham that he was to be his newly appointed heir, had been immobilized by it in the aftermath of battle, and had recoiled in its wake when he had entered Mary's body only to discover he had not been the first. Shock left him uncertain and shaky, as if a hidden threat lay lurking just out of eyesight. No—it was a word he would not allow to be associated with…with this.

His baby. His child. Their son.

"Oh, God, Mary."

The hoarse whisper was all he could manage, the words scraping his throat. Then he couldn't see, his vision clouded by tears that filled his eyes before he could fight them. It was so much, a child…a son. His chest began to heave, his cheeks to burn as sobs tore from him in a manner that physically hurt. Moisture poured over the crevices of his face, falling into the baby's blanket, into his downy hair. A handkerchief was somehow pressed into his palm, from where he had no knowledge, but he was certain it would not be enough to curtail all that needed to be expressed. It could never be enough.

"He's mine? Ours? Truly?"

She nodded slowly, her own chin betraying her as a quiver rocked it unexpectedly.

"Yes."

The dam then broke, allowing the unfettered passage of heavy regret and loss to mix in a free descent with an unknown emotion so profound it frightened him. He pulled the baby closer yet turned his head, attempting to shield the boy from the tears of a father he had only just met. He was somewhat aware of her hand on his arm, of her hair on his cheek, noticing through a fog how she wiped one of his tears from the baby's forehead before kissing the very spot she had just touched. He could not help but stare at her, the blurred lines of her face the most exquisite thing he had ever beheld.

"He's perfect, Mary. So very perfect."

He sensed her exhale, felt the additional weight of her body lean against his shoulder as it dawned upon him that she had been uncertain of how he would respond.

"I think so," she breathed, looking to the child rather than at him as her shoulders dropped in release.

It was done. Thank God.

"And all this time, you…you were?" Her silent nod answered him, her composure suddenly too unsteady to accommodate speech. He stared at the boy again, his delicate nose, eyebrows that were nearly non-existent, ears so small he could not fathom how they could begin to process sound. Then he yawned, the gesture so incredibly precious that he couldn't help but smile through lingering tears. "How old is he?"

His voice was ragged, but the expression he wore was one of wonder tinged with utter awe.

"Six weeks."

Had it really been only weeks that he had been in her life? Only a fistful of days that he had latched to her breast and burrowed into her being? How was it possible for every strand of one's life to be so radically altered in such a short amount of time? But a year ago he was not even a formed thought.

"He's so tiny." His voice drew her attention, and she watched as he took the boy's hand, examining his fingers as if they were priceless gemstones, stroking nails so small they were nearly impossible to feel. The rise and fall of the child's chest mesmerized him, and Matthew was suddenly struck by the realization that he could simply watch his son forever.

"Are you angry?" Her question jarred him, so out of place and disjointed with what he held in his arms that he stared at her in a stupor.

"Angry?" His confusion drew her eyes, his mouth agape at her inquiry.

"About him. Because I didn't tell you."

"How—how could I possibly be angry? About him?" His honest bewilderment struck her, yet she knew that the enormity of what was taking place had not yet had the opportunity to settle fully into his mind.

"A child is quite a large responsibility, Matthew." One side of his mouth lifted slightly.

"I am aware of that, Mary." There was no reproach in his tone, just a burgeoning acceptance of the infant in his arms as his eyes continually flittered from the child to his mother. "I admit to the fact that I am experiencing quite a myriad of emotions at the moment, but I can assure you that anger is not one of them." She stared at him, swallowing decisively.

"It may yet be, you know. Goodness knows I have dealt with my own share of it."

It then hit him—the full measure of her situation. He had left her alone, pregnant, and unmarried while he had been engaged to another. She had fled from Downton, from her family, not only out of a desire to escape from any attachment to him but to hide her shame from those who would all too willingly judge her. And she had carried all of that burden while she carried his child in her womb, along with the additional weight of his rejection and complete removal from her life.

Of course she would be angry. Of course she would hate him.

So much struck him at once, he nearly took mental cover out of habit, feeling the need to throw himself from the chaos surrounding him into the safest location he could find. He had deserted her when she had been at her most vulnerable, leaving her marked as a woman of easy virtue while he agonized over whether or not he should post his pitiful attempts at an apology. While he had been in the trenches, she had fought to find her way, to live on her own, to give birth to and raise a child alone. And not just any child—his child, who because of his foolish actions had entered this world without the protection of a father. Who had been born illegitimate, a stigma no child deserved to carry, especially one born to the woman he had loved in stubborn silence for far too long.

Yet in spite of the difficult circumstances in which he had left them, Mary had been able to move beyond any animosity she rightfully bore him and loved her son with a purity that was humbling to witness. His admiration for her coupled with his own shame filled his chest painfully.

"I'm so sorry, Mary. God knows that I am." His trembling resumed, and their eyes locked in a manner slightly uncomfortable yet so very familiar.

"I know. So am I."

The babe began to protest, his face pinching as a slight whimper began a steady crescendo. He looked to her for instruction, wondering if the boy needed his mother yet reluctant to give him up. She wrapped her hands about his small frame, careful to balance his head as she shifted his position to rest against his father's chest.

"Rub his back. That tends to soothe him."

How odd it felt to hold him in such a fashion, but how wonderfully natural. The warmth of his tiny body nestled against him pushed up yet another sob, one he swallowed down as best he could even as a tear trickled down rebelliously. Mary knew to stroke his back, had already come to know their child in a manner so personal. Yet he was still a stranger. The thought cut him, leaving in its wake a wound deeper than the one that had placed him in this chair. But the fault was his own. Not hers. Never hers.

"What's his name?"

His question had been anticipated with a certain amount of dread, the understanding that if he held certain expectations her reply could pull him back into morose or launch him into anger. She had convinced herself by her fourth month that it was a daughter growing within her. That notion had been easier for her to accept, somehow, knowing that the child would not be denied an inheritance simply because of the circumstances of her birth. She had considered several names for a girl, writing them down, crossing them out, unwilling to consider names for a son who would most assuredly be a painful reminder of his father. Yet the moment she had seen him, all thoughts of a daughter had vanished. He was her own. Hers. And she had deliberately chosen a name that held no reminders or painful associations that could wedge themselves between them.

"Christopher. His name is Christopher."

Matthew's eyes fluttered, absorbing with a modicum of surprise the name which would forever identify his son.

"Not Robert?"

So he had not expected that she would name the boy after himself. She sighed heavily in relief.

"No. I wasn't sure just how Papa would feel about that once he learned that he…" She faltered, something she so rarely did. But he understood completely, daring to take on the rest of her statement even as its meaning burned his tongue.

"That he had a grandson born out-of-wedlock."

Her gaze held his wordlessly, her relief in not having to verbalize those final words abundantly clear.

"Precisely." He touched the child's hair, marveling at its texture and golden color, so like his and in such lovely contrast to eyes that were hinting at his mother's shade of brown.

"Does he know?" The question hung stagnant between them.

"Not yet. But he will by the end of the day. Everyone will." A cold sweat broke out on his neck, the reality of their situation becoming public beginning to take root.

"God, how he'll hate me." She couldn't contradict him, so very uncertain of just how her father would react to such news that would alter all he knew.

"No more than he will hate me, I assure you." Matthew shook his head, knowing deeply that at least this assertion would never hold true.

"No. Your father could never hate you, Mary, nor your son. He won't be happy about our situation, but in time he will come around as far as you and Christopher are concerned." His lips quivered slightly, testing this name so new yet so precious, feeling it's weight and texture in his mouth as its bearer squirmed in response. "But as for me, I fear I will have lost his respect forever." The thought burned bitterly, singeing nerves still raw from all of the emotion of the past hour.

"I doubt it." Her tone was smooth, but decidedly lacking in conviction.

"I don't. I was intimate with his daughter, got her with child while engaged to another, left her alone with no assurances of my return, then managed to get myself injured so that I'm little use to anyone. I'll be fortunate indeed if he doesn't have me shot, as he has every moral right to do." She was silent a moment, her brows coming together until they nearly touched as she took in sight before her. Matthew—holding their child, soothing him in a most gentle manner as the babe's fingers curled trustingly around one of his father's.

"You're of use to him." The baby. Christopher. His son.

"I haven't exactly been a stellar father so far."

"I didn't really give you the opportunity, did I?"

Again there was nothing to say.

They sat unmoving, watching this child, their son adjust to a chest still unfamiliar as he came to know the man who gave him life.

"Does he have a middle name?" This finally drew a small smile from her, a hint of the Mary he had known before sparking in her expression.

"Yes. It's Joseph." He couldn't help but smile along with her.

"How perfect."

"I don't know about that," she began, a bit of a flush coloring her cheeks, "but having his middle name related to my own seemed to affirm our connection after he was born. And I needed that." Her voice then dropped as her hand cradled his head. "He was all I had."

Her words pierced him soundly, and he closed his eyes in a defense he knew to be non-existent.

"I should have been there for you. For both of you." She again had no response. He instinctively patted the boy's back, feeling his head tap lightly against him as the child settled in comfortably. "Christopher Joseph Crawley. I like it very much."

She felt a knot give way in her rib cage.

"I'm glad…and more than a little relieved." He then understood.

"You thought I would expect you to name him after me?"

Her breath stilled in her throat, her heart's thud uncomfortably residing in her temple. She had cried his name into her pillow, cursed it in anger, whispered it in prayer and written it in secret. Yet she did not have the fortitude to pass it on to his son, the pain associated with it something she could not attach to her baby.

"I did wonder." His head was shaking, responding for him before words had the opportunity to catch up.

"I don't deserve such an honor, Mary." His voice cracked open yet again, and he fought back the tremor in his hand. "I don't deserve him."

"Neither do I. But—" The rest of her sentence halted in her mouth, her eyes searching his for permission to carry on. "But I cannot imagine life without him. Regardless of our circumstances, I…I would never wish him away." Her words had been almost inaudible, yet delivered with a conviction that acutely thrummed every nerve in his body.

"I know. Neither would I." She smiled softly in response.

He had dreamed of having children, had wondered how it would feel to see one's child for the first time, to feel their body clasped tightly to one's own. Nothing he had envisioned had come even remotely close. Was this how all fathers felt, he wondered, awash with such amazement and terror at the staggering reality that this small person needed him—would depend upon him, regardless of his limitations? Could he truly be a father from this chair?

He would have to be. Deserting either of them was simply unthinkable.

A silence overtook them as they pondered this life they had created, this child so dependent upon their care who knew nothing of the difficulties they now must face.

"Let me make things right, Mary." There they were, words she somehow knew he would say that both warmed and pierced regions touched only by him. "Or as right as they can possibly be after all I have done."

She noted the flushed color of his neck, the swollen redness of his eyes, the broken expression of a man shown a future that overwhelmed him beyond speech. She knew this was the only course, the only manner to bring about any redemption for the three of them, even though one was completely innocent of any wrong-doing. It was right, most certainly necessary, but it frightened her, though a part of her was awash with relief.

"Are you certain this is what you want, Matthew?" Her question startled him, the steadiness in her tone a contrast to the slight twitch in her fingers.

"Yes. More than certain." All color drained from her face, and she licked lips suddenly dry even has her tongue lacked the moisture to provide a modicum of relief.

"I never meant to make you feel obligated." Her assertion confused him.

"Of course I'm obligated. He's my son." The statement sprang from him with force, but her pallor softened him immediately. God, of course she would have reservations about marrying him, after all that had happened, with all of his limitations. "I know this is hardly an ideal situation for you. I mean, look at me. I…" His words fell fractured in his larynx as his arm began to tremble. She took the child gently, noting the concern in his glance that he might lose his grip as the hateful tremor overtook him again. His face betrayed his shame in such weakness, his struggle with his own body transparently painful to view. Her free hand moved steadily to his, covering his shaking, the gesture overwhelming to them both.

"I'm not concerned about your chair, you know."

It wasn't a completely truthful statement, yet it needed to be said. She hated to see him in such a position, confined by an uncooperative body to an existence that tore at his demeanor.

"Perhaps you should be." He wouldn't look at her again, staring at his worthless legs with a disgust that made her suddenly angry.

"Perhaps you should stop using it as an excuse." His eyes flew to her, the creased lines in her forehead an obvious challenge. "I wish this had never happened to you, Matthew, with everything inside of me, but we can't change it, no matter how badly we may want to. We can only move forward with what we have left, no matter how unideal our circumstances." He flinched at the impact of her observations, knowing them to be true and despising the fact. "If we're going to do it together, we must accept everything about our situation, which unfortunately includes your wheelchair and the certainty of a rather daunting amount of stigma that will follow us the rest of our lives. Trying to withdraw from our difficulties will do nothing but keep us rooted to the same place we are right now. And I personally would rather not stay here."

Where the words had come from, she did not know, yet they poured from her with an authority she had forgotten she possessed. She felt somehow lighter, as if a burden long carried had finally been set down.

"You're right, of course you're right. You just deserve so much more, Mary, more that I can ever hope to give you." She inhaled deeply.

"This is not about me, Matthew. It's about what's best for him." Christopher began to nuzzle her breast, and she adjusted him to her shoulder, hoping to delay his need to nurse as she was unwilling to pause their conversation at such an important juncture. "We have managed on our own, he and I," she observed quietly, "Although your mother has been a tremendous help." An ache began to pulse demandingly, pulling on her insides from so many regions. "But he does deserve a father, one who will love him."

His fingers racked through his hair, her statement compounding feelings so new and overpowering that shook him to the core.

"I love him so much already. How could I not?"

His gaze left her in no doubt of this assertion, and her eyes softened as a bit of color returned to her cheeks.

"I know. And I'm glad."

He knew he must tell her, must confess feelings that would most likely be unwelcome after the wounds he had so brutally inflicted. But he would hide nothing from her again, the cost of such inaction more staggering than he had ever anticipated.

"I want you to know, Mary…" He stumbled upon his own admission, feeling so unworthy of words that must be spoken.

"What is it?"

He stared at the pair of them, mother and child, cocooned together as if perfectly sculpted in such a stance.

"Our marriage would not be simply out of obligation—not on my part, anyway. Regardless of my abhorrent behavior towards you, you need to understand that—" He paused yet again, fixing his gaze to assuage any doubts she might harbor. "I still love you. I always have."

She moved to the nearest chair, sitting with her son before her legs had the opportunity to fail. Emotions she had attempted to bury and carve out of her heart struck with renewed force, and she saw him as she had that day at the train station when he kissed her, when she had allowed herself to hope, before the staggering cruelty of disappointed expectations had left her cold to so much around her.

"I believe you. But I'm not certain that I can trust you just yet."

He was not surprised, but still so very disappointed.

"That's understandable."

The baby began to whimper, distracting her while alerting her breasts all too quickly that she would have to take care of them both in rather short order.

"Is he alright?" She gave him a half-smile, patting Christopher's back as she whispered an endearment in an ear nestled close to her cheek.

"Yes. He's getting hungry." He nodded, struck anew how she already understood his whimpers and sounds, interpreting them with the insight of a mother.

"Does he….I mean, do you…?" His lips pursed tightly together in the midst of asking something that seemed suddenly quite personal.

"Do I nurse him, you mean?" He nodded wordlessly in affirmation. "Yes. I do." She could not help but appreciate the blush that crept over his face, astounded at how such a common-place action could give him pause after all that had been exposed between them.

"I wasn't certain if you had hired someone or had chosen to do it yourself." His curiosity outweighed any lingering discomfort he felt in questioning her further.

"I've been doing quite a bit more for myself, actually," she returned softly, her fingers caressing Christopher's head. "We haven't been living quite as grandly as I did at Downton." His eyes creased in clear surprise as a sickening thud hit his abdomen.

"You have been well-provided for, haven't you?" He couldn't stomach the thought of either Mary or their son living in dire conditions.

"Mama sends me money," she returned factually, continuing to bounce the child gently. "She would never allow either of us to struggle. Although she must be discreet about it all since Papa…" Her eyes fell to her lap. And his guilt increased.

"Since he doesn't know."

"Please don't worry, Matthew. We do live comfortably. I have a housekeeper and a cook, as well as a part-time lady's maid. It has been enough."

Enough. The word seemed dirty, somehow.

"You should have been at Downton, though, given every attention, surrounded by your family. Not off living in seclusion, trying to raise a child on your own." Her sigh touched him from her seat.

"We can't dwell on that now, Matthew. Such thoughts serve no purpose other than trying to undo a past that neither of us would prefer to revisit."

She had come to accept her new life out of necessity, shoving aside the bitterness of loss as her time had drawn ever closer. Loneliness had been the steepest hurdle to overcome, a fact which had surprised her as she had always cherished times of solitude. But too much had worn on her, the lack of her family sapping her energy and spirit as her pregnancy had progressed. Making new friends seemed like a waste of time as she would either have to lie about her situation or face rejection here in her new location.

"Where have you been, exactly?" She had forgotten that she had not told him yet.

"We've been north, actually. In Cumberland."

"The Lake District?" he inquired, not certain what he had expected yet surprised all the same.

"Yes. It is quite lovely." The babe began to burrow again, and she slid a knuckle into his mouth, knowing he would soon reach the limits of his patience. "Mama helped me locate a suitable house not far from the lake, actually. And the mountains are truly breath-taking." He watched her closely, noting the slight movement of her brows, the flicker of her mouth before daring to state the obvious.

"But it isn't home."

Her shoulders deflated a bit, the truth of his observation too heavy to hold.

"No. It isn't home. But there we face no censure as it is believed that I am a widow." He nodded slowly, hating that she had been forced into an identity crafted by untruths for her own protection.

"And if you were to return with a husband?" Her heart thudded uncomfortably as the word fell from his lips.

"It would be a bit of a surprise, I suppose. But life would go on. It's not Downton, you know, where my family's reputation is at stake. I am still an unknown there." His mind was spinning again as he attempted to piece together the fragments of her life.

"Did you not use your own name?"

"No. I used my mother's," she replied softly. "Levinson."

"Mary Levinson," he echoed, noting her hesitant nod. "It couldn't have been easy to assume a new identity in a place so far away."

She couldn't look at him then, needing the face of her child in her mind as she reminded herself of why all she had done had been necessary.

"Nothing about our situation has been easy, Matthew."

"No. No, it hasn't." He paused, staring again at the miracle in her arms, biting down another wave of crushing regret at missing so much of a life just beginning. "I wrote to you, actually. From the front, I mean."

Eyes rounded in shock met his, her mouth slightly agape at his confession.

"I never received a letter," she asserted, her pulse thudding painfully in her ears as implications rendered her immobile. He looked down to his lap, clearing his throat.

"That's because I never sent them."

Breathing suddenly became an act of will.

"Them?"

The word hung between them, the threat of tears much too close for her own comfort.

"Several, actually. I lost count at some point."

One then broke free from her lashes, blazing a heated trail down her cheek.

"Why did you never…?"

"I told you, Mary. I was a complete coward." They stared at each other, the silence all-encompassing except for the fidgeting of their son against her breast. "I felt so betrayed by what had happened at first, yet so ashamed. I thought…" He broke off, not wanting to hurt her yet again, not wanting to increase the void they had been so carefully attempting to bridge.

"Just say it, Matthew. If we are to have even the smallest of chances, we must be honest with each other."

Fists clenched tightly in an effort to summon the necessary courage.

"I convinced myself that what happened must have meant nothing to you if it had happened before with someone…" He hesitated, seeing a small measure of defeat in her eyes.

"Go on." The whispered command left no room for disagreement.

"If you had been with someone else so entirely disconnected from your life." Her fingers were suddenly quite cold. "Then I began to realize what an idiot I was being and that it truly was my responsibility to make things right between us, no matter what had happened before." He sighed, staring beyond her into the past that had brought them shakily to this moment. "I wrote to Lavinia and broke things off with her," he continued throatily, a small laugh escaping him as he rubbed his chin. "That letter was actually much easier to write than…than the ones to you."

The baby began to protest, and she shifted his stance to her other shoulder, kissing his forehead.

"But you posted the letter to her." Their eyes met again.

"Yes. I did." Her lip trembled slightly, and she drew a deep breath in an attempt to keep hold of her composure. "I crafted your first letter and then wouldn't send it because it was full of such anger," he explained, his voice quivering. "Anger at him, anger at you, but mostly anger at myself." She noted the tremor in his chest, brought about by sheer emotion rather than any physical injury. "So I put it away and drafted another, this one a bit more reasonable, I thought, but still too emotional to allow you to read." Another tear escaped her, sneaking out the corner of her eye as it found its way to her earlobe. "William caught me on several occasions, and he berated me soundly for lacking the courage to post them," he mused softly, the memory of a man lost still too painful to absorb. "Of course, he had no knowledge of what had transpired between us and thought I was simply trying to muster the courage to tell you how I really felt."

Then the tears were his, their decent somehow forging a fragile connection in the space between them.

"I was afraid of loving you, Mary. Afraid of what it meant, afraid of how you would respond, afraid of your reaction to an honest admission of my feelings. So I let the dangers of war serve as an excuse for my own inaction, all the while sentencing you and our child to an uncertain and lonely existence."

She was unsure-unsteady, terrified of her need to run to him yet unwilling to shove it aside. She instead held his son to her heart, a mute expression of the love she bore him and that which she still held for his father.

"We've both been so foolish, Matthew. So very, very foolish." He wiped his eyes hastily, pressing his lips together as he nodded in assent.

"Yes. And me most of all."

He pushed his chair in her direction, stopping close enough to touch her, even as his hands tightly clasped his chair. So much stood between them—years of misunderstanding, of dancing around each other, stolen glances, secret kisses, an afternoon of forbidden intimacy that had changed everything. But he loved her. There was no question. And it was time he took responsibility for his feelings and his life.

"Marry me?"

The breath of his proposal caressed her insides, pulling her inextricably towards him as she quietly voiced the answer that had always been inevitable.

"Yes."

He then took her hand, daring a kiss on its surface with trembling lips as both dropped their heads at such contact.

"I'm determined, you know," he managed, capturing her gaze once again. "To restore your trust in me." They sat there, the three of them, connected physically as an awareness of something new hovered over them in a fragile beauty.

"I hope you can," she returned quietly, a shaky warmth spreading through her chest as he tenderly cupped Christopher's small head with his palm.

"So do I." The child then cried out, pulling her from this unsteady trance as she stood wobbly on her feet.

"I must see to him," she explained, the expression in his eyes so vastly different than the one she had carried in her memory for too many months. He nodded his understanding, watching her leave the room in a bit of a daze. The absolution she had extended pulsed in his very skin, making him so keenly aware to the responsibilities lying yet before him as it bolstered his determination to shelter her from any further difficulty. He would speak with her family, face her father, take on any opposition they might face as their indiscretion was revealed. He would not allow this blasted chair to hinder him further—the stakes were too high, those involved much too precious.

Mary needed him, Christopher needed him. He was a father, soon to be a husband, and a man who had much to lose and quite a journey before him to repair what he had marred. But he would do it. God help him, he would do it. Mary had granted him grace beyond measure. And he promised himself that he would now give her everything, no matter how much it may cost.


	8. Chapter 8

**March, 1918**

Would this horrid retching never stop?

She had emptied the contents of her stomach several minutes ago, yet she could not move from the floor, her body continuing to heave in a cruel mockery of her now undeniable condition. Excuses and other plausible explanations were discarded, the fact that her second cycle was now over a week late in arriving sealing her fate. There was no use in deceiving herself any longer. She was carrying his child-Matthew's child.

Dear God, what was she supposed to do?

Tears fell as she began to heave yet again, her body trembling in protest to this intrusion growing in her womb. It seemed horribly unfair, she mused, that something for which she had secretly longed could now bring about her ruin. Two of them had created this situation, two bore its responsibility, yet the shame and consequences would be carried by only one. He had shunned her two months ago, leaving her in a silent hell as she awaited word of something. An apology, a dismissal, a proposal, anything would have been preferable to the weeks of wordless confusion that had become her existence.

Yet she could not remain in such a state. Neither denial nor self-pity would do her any good. Reality had to be faced, plans made, an unthinkable future plotted, all under a cloud of deception she already despised. There was now a child to consider. Matthew's child.

No. He had forsaken any claim to this baby when he had washed his hands of her. This child would be hers and hers alone.

A surge of terror overtook her, the knowledge that she had no idea of just how to be a mother pushing out a fresh bout of tears. She already possessed doubts as to her suitability for such a role. How on earth was she supposed to do this alone? Her stomach clenched yet again, weary arms bracing a frame quite exhausted from heaving. Was there no mercy to be found?

Trembling limbs finally bore her back to her bed, the only refuge left to her as she sought its encompassing warmth. She drew the covers to her chin, one hand drifting down in spite of herself, touching her stomach, acknowledging an existence that should not be. She buried her face in her pillow, forcing what tears remained from her eyes as she sought a calm she feared forever lost. She had to find her center, to set sentiment aside and cloak herself in the more comfortable threads of reason. Fingers began to softly stroke what would remain undetected only so much longer.

"I'm so sorry," she whispered into the stillness, seeking forgiveness from a child who would always live under a shadow. "So very sorry."

The click of her door pushed her upright, the quickness of her motion making her stomach protest yet again. Anna stood haltingly just inside her room, looking from the tray she bore back to Mary.

"I brought you some tea and dry toast, my lady. I thought it might help."

Her face fell in embarrassment, unable to gaze at the clear understanding in the other woman's eyes.

"Thank you, Anna. That was very kind."

Anna made her way quietly to the bedside, setting a tray gently on Mary's lap.

"Are you alright?" The question seemed almost absurd.

"As much as I can be, I suppose." She received a silent nod. What else was there to be said in such a situation?

The tea soothed a throat raw from its morning abuse, and she sat up straighter as Anna adjusted the pillows behind her back.

"Is there anything I can do for you? Anything at all? " Trembling hands deposited her tea cup back to a solid surface, eyes finally moving to the other woman's face.

"I fear there is little that can be done anymore."

Anna shook her head, her brow creasing slightly.

"Don't say that, my lady. I'm sure a solution can be found." A sigh heaved from weary lungs.

"What acceptable solution is there in a situation like this, Anna?" The maid looked hesitant to answer.

"Marriage would seem like the most obvious course of action," she finally voiced, staring at her hands uncomfortably.

"Even if the father of my child is engaged to someone else?"

There. She had admitted it. Was it wrong that voicing such a disgraceful statement afforded her a slight measure of relief?

"Mr. Matthew then?" The whispered inquiry thundered in her head.

"Yes." She licked pasty lips as her admission took root.

"You should write to him and tell him, my lady," Anna finally suggested, twisting her fingers together. "He is a man of honor." A dull roar began in her ears.

"A man of honor who walked away from me right after we—" Her sentence halted in her throat. Someone else was listening, a shadow preceding a hidden figure into the light of the room. "Who's there?" The momentary silence nearly undid her.

"Only your mother."

She sighed in a mixture of relief and dread. Cora then moved towards the pair of them, her eyes never breaking contact with her daughter's. Eyes that saw too much.

"Don't stop on my account." Mary's airway constricted.

"What did you hear?" Her heart began to thud painfully, the knowledge that this conversation was inevitable doing nothing to lessen her discomfort.

"Not much, actually. But I have a pretty good idea of what was being said."

Silence.

"If you'll just excuse me—"

"No, Anna," Mary commanded quietly, halting the woman's retreat. "You can stay. I'd prefer that you did, actually." The maid nodded wordlessly, stepping back just far enough to give mother and daughter a modicum of space. A space that quite suddenly felt cavernous. The pair stared at each other in silence, Cora slowly taking a seat as she dared the first move.

"How far along are you, Mary?" Her limbs felt numb. She then closed her eyes, fingers again flittering to her abdomen as all pretense clattered to the floor.

"About two months, I suppose." Lady Grantham simply nodded.

"That coincides with Matthew's last visit, doesn't it? When he returned just in time for the concert?" She swallowed down a fresh urge to be sick.

"Yes." How she wished her mother would look at the walls, out the window, anywhere but directly at her. Her hands began to fidget uncomfortably.

"I assume there is no coincidence in the timing of things, is there?"

Her chest and arms began to shake.

"No." She closed her eyes and saw him, making his way behind the rest of the soldiers, William at his heels, smiling up at her as her heart literally paused in wonder. A moment frozen in time that had led to an afternoon that would mark her forever. She bit her bottom lip.

"And just why has Matthew not yet proposed? I should think that would have been his first course of action after taking such liberties with you." Harsh words stung a heart already bruised.

"He is engaged to someone else, Mama." Cora's nostrils flared dangerously.

"And so are you. But this is not Richard Carlisle's baby, is it?" Her sigh was audible.

"No." Thank God.

"Surely Matthew will have broken things off with Lavinia by now," her mother continued, confusion evident on her face. "No matter the lack of sound judgment the two of you have demonstrated in this situation, the fact is that Matthew is a good man. He obviously still has feelings for you, and I cannot imagine that he would abandon you after…" Her sentence trailed off.

"After we made love, you mean?" The words burned her throat, the act described one too painful to remember.

"Precisely." Her chest constricted mercilessly. "What is it you're not telling me, Mary?"

Her stomach began to churn. How could she even begin to describe such an intimate yet damning detail?

"He found out," she managed, the admission nearly choking her. "About Mr. Pamuk, I mean." Cora's eyes narrowed.

"You told him? Why?"

Her face burned.

"I had to, because he…he figured things out for himself."

Lady Grantham's sharp intake of breath caught her attention, and she watched all color bleed from her mother's face.

"You mean while you were…"

"Yes, for God's sake! Do I have to spell it out?" She grasped the tea cup, needing a brief respite from the scrutiny staring back at her with owl-like eyes.

"What did he say to you?"

_Oh, God. Who was it, Mary?_   His question still cut, the seething hurt in his expression ripping her internally as his shock morphed into disgust.

"He wanted to know who it was," she replied softly, taking another sip to calm frayed nerves.

"And you told him?"

_Does it really matter?_

She had known that the man's identity was secondary in importance, the fact that she was impure overriding any other concern in his mind.

"Yes. I did." Her mother's eyes widened further.

"How did he respond?"

_How could you conceal something like this from me all this time and then be with me like we just were?_

_Because I love you too much_ , she had wanted to scream. _Because of all people in the world, the one whose opinion matters the most to me is yours._ Yet she had swallowed back those statements, knowing they would do nothing but expose her to pity as she struck back at him with all she had.

_How could you kiss me like you did at the station then come home to her without a word?_

He had stared at her in horror.

_There is no comparison in what we have done, and you know it._

His accusation had stripped her defenseless. Then he had left.

"Not very well, I'm afraid. I haven't heard from him since."

"Yet he had the gall to walk away from you after he did the same thing?" Cora's expression was incredulous now, and Mary realized that a great portion of her anger was directed at Matthew.

"He said that he had hoped…" Hoped what? That they could have become engaged? He had never told her, she realized, leaving her suspended in a world of shame that would now become physically evident to anyone who cared to look. For a few stolen moments, she had been his lover. Now the only distinction she bore was that of discarded mother to his bastard child.

"Yes?" Her mother watched her closely, waiting quietly for the rest of her sentence.

"I don't know, honestly." Mary exhaled loudly, wishing she had a better reply than the one she had just offered.

"I think it is time he stopped hoping and started taking responsibility for his actions." Her mother's voice had dropped, an icy fire lacing her tone.

"You cannot tell him, Mama. Please." A tear threatened to give way, and she covered her mouth, unwilling to weep openly at such a moment.

"He has to know, Mary. The two of you must marry at once if anything is going to be salvaged." Her head was shaking of its own accord, another tear wafting down her cheek.

"No. He cannot stand the sight of me now, don't you understand? How can I possibly enter a marriage with a man who thinks so little of me, especially when I—" Her chin wobbled, her fingers dancing restlessly on the tray.

"When you love him so much?" Her mother finished for her, pushing her over the edge as everything shattered around her.

"I won't be his wife out of pity," she insisted, sniffing back her grief as best she could. "I can manage many things, but not that." Her mother's stare sharpened.

"You aren't considering trying to pass this child off as Richard's?" A rueful laugh morphed into a cough.

"No. I plan on ending our engagement within the week."

"So enlighten me, Mary," Lady Grantham began, "If you will not inform Matthew that he is to be a father, and you refuse to marry Sir Richard, then what are your plans?" Her gaze lowered to her tray.

"I thought I might go away, to a place where no one knows me." Her heart plummeted at her own statement.

"Are you quite certain? That is a rather drastic action."

"I know. But it is best for everyone." She half-hoped her mother would contradict her.

"Do you wish to go to New York? I can write mother immediately and make arrangements."

"No," she insisted. "I can't be that far away. I would prefer to remain in England." Cora pursed her lips thoughtfully.

"Well, London is out of the question. A small town would be better, I suppose." Her mind began to reel as the reality of her situation took hold. Downton was lost to her, her family slipping through her fingers. Should she reconsider telling Matthew? After all, her child could then be heir if she carried a son, raised to a life denied her because of her gender. No. She could not stomach the thought of living with him day in and day out knowing how little he thought of her. What kind of life would that be for her? What a horrid existence for their child.

"What do you say, Mary?"

Her mother's question startled her back to her present surroundings, looking to Anna as if answers could be found upon her face.

"To what, exactly?"

"To the Lake District? It's a decent distance from Downton, and we have no real connections there. But you would be close enough so that I could visit."

What? Her mother's hand then encircled her own, the gesture nearly undoing her.

"You will visit?" Her breath stilled in her throat.

"Of course I will. You're my daughter, no matter what has happened."

Tears were impossible to hold back any longer, and she hung her head. Relief, fear, dread, they swirled together in some unholy cocktail as she squeezed her mother's hand in return. It was her sole lifeline to any semblance of hope.

"You really don't think I will be permanently separated from my first grandchild, do you?"

"Oh, Mama."

Anna removed the tray hastily, sensing the gesture before it transpired. Mother and daughter clasped tightly together, a bond of blood overruling the stigma of shame. For once, Mary was relieved that her mother was American, wondering if she would have received the same measure of grace from her father. No. She knew better.

"What will you tell Papa?" A moment of silence breached their connection.

"That you need to get away for a while," Lady Grantham finally returned. "That ending your engagement to Richard was quite difficult for you, and that you needed some distance from all that has happened here." She nodded in agreement, her mother's reasoning making sense.

"Tell him I'm in America. Let everyone believe that, actually. It will explain my lengthy absence." Months of loneliness suddenly stretched out before her.

"If that's what you really want," Cora replied, searching her daughter's face, "but we shall have to tell him the truth at some point. I don't want to be separated from you for too long." Her chest hollowed at the thought.

"He won't receive me," Mary argued softly, wiping the corner of her eyes. "No who knows me will once my circumstances are made public."

"Oh, Mary," her mother put in. "You don't know him as well as you think you do."

"But Mama—you don't understand," she implored. "I would not only have to tell him about Matthew, but also about Kemal Pamuk. He won't accept the notion that Matthew would simply walk away from me without a reason." Cora nodded slowly, her features creased in concentration.

"I understand your concern, truly I do. But what happened with Mr. Pamuk took place years ago, Mary. And once your father actually meets his grandchild, he won't have the heart to turn the two of you away." She shook her head decisively.

"I wish I shared your confidence."

Her mother tightened her grip.

"So do I."

Her eyes stared out the window, seeking something no longer there.

"Matthew can never know. Promise me." The words chilled her skin as they left her lips, her mother paling slightly at their utterance.

"If that's what you really want." She pulled icy feet up under her body, the blanket doing little to warm them.

"Yes. It's what I want." The lie tasted bitter.

Cora nodded softly and took her leave, her exit setting into motion the end of life as she knew it. She finally made eye contact with Anna, granting her unvoiced permission to begin their morning routine. How she welcomed this care, taking in the sensation of hair being brushed and styled, knowing this luxury would no longer be hers within a matter of days. Anna would be left behind, another staggering loss. And she would cast her lot among strangers, take on an identity not her own to raise a child hidden from his father.

A surge of panic seized her, and she nearly faltered in her determination. Perhaps she should write to Matthew. No. Matthew already despised her. Why should she subject herself to being reminded of his disdain on a daily basis? This had to be done, her plan carried through. It was better for everyone, actually. Truly it was.

Wasn't it?

* * *

 

**November, 1918**

She sat in the large chair, shifting Christopher to her other breast as she adjusted her blouse accordingly. He latched on eagerly, bringing relief to her hardened nipple. She stroked his hair, still in awe of what had just transpired.

Matthew had met his son. And it had nearly destroyed her.

He had held the infant to his chest with a reverence that hurt, kissed his soft head and wept over his very existence. The adoration he felt for the boy was evident, causing Mary to question every decision she had made during the past nine months. Had she been wrong in concealing her pregnancy from Matthew? How different would things now be for all of them if she had pushed aside her fears and written to him as Anna had suggested? Would Christopher now be accepted as their legitimate son rather than being a baby held in secret? Had her ridiculous pride stolen more than a simple birthright from her own son?

"Oh, my darling," she whispered over his forehead, her thumb stroking his cheek. "What have I done to you?" She had never felt so wretched. A knock interrupted her musings, and she adjusted the blanket, concealing both him and her own exposure. "Who is it?"

"It's your mother." She should have anticipated this visit.

"Come in." The door creaked open, Cora emerging into the room, moving to a chair nearby as she studied her daughter's face.

"Well," she began, her curiosity evident. "How did everything go?" Mary shot her mother a look.

"Better than expected, actually."

Cora's resulting sigh was audible.

"I'm so glad. I could not imagine that he could meet his own child and not fall in love with him."

"He's quite besotted with him, to tell the truth." Mary pushed her lips together, peaking under the blanket to look upon her child once more.

"Did he propose?"

Her chest tightened perceptibly as her fingers chilled.

"Yes. He did." Lady Grantham looked at her expectantly, rolling her eyes when no further information was offered.

"And?" Mary shifted uncomfortably.

"And I accepted him. What choice did I have?" Cora watched her in silence, leaning in as she pushed forward.

"Not much of one, I admit. But this is an improvement from where things stood just hours ago." Her mind was still reeling from the changes that had transpired.

"I suppose."

"You are to have a husband and Christopher his father. How is that not a better situation?" She inhaled deeply, shaking her head, knowing she possessed no logical answer. "Are you sorry that he knows?" Cora's question struck a chord.

"No. It was wrong of me to keep him from Christopher as long as I did." Her mother's eyes narrowed.

"Don't be too hard on yourself. He did put you in an impossible situation." A chill ran up her legs.

"Yes. I know."

"Do you still love Matthew?" Her heart burned painfully, a sensation that seemed to be reserved solely for him.

"I'll always love him. Somehow, I can't get away from that, no matter what I do, no matter how badly he hurts me." Eyes met in shared understanding.

"Did he confess to having any feelings for you?" She shifted again.

"He said that he has never stopped loving me. Even when he was engaged to Lavinia."

"I'm not surprised," Cora returned. Mary's jaw gaped slightly.

"Really? Because I was rather stunned." The repercussions of choices made pecked at her relentlessly, making her skin itch as nerves took over. "Oh, Mama, what have I done?" The question tore from her chest, her thoughts spinning in a never-ending loop. "If I had listened to you and Anna months ago, we might not be facing such a predicament now." Cora stood and moved to her daughter's side, taking her hand firmly.

"That's true. But he may not have responded as well then as he just did," Lady Grantham reasoned. "Matthew has had to endure his share of suffering over the past several months. He may have resented you back then rather than embracing his son as he is doing now." Mary stared up her mother in concern.

"I don't know. I'm so uncertain of everything."

"Welcome to motherhood," Cora smiled knowingly. She held Christopher close, feeling rounded lips release her as small eyes fluttered shut.

"I don't regret him, Mama," she breathed, moving his sated form to her shoulder. "I'm not proud of the circumstances in which he was conceived, but I am immensely proud of him." Cora rubbed her hand across the child's head.

"As you should be. He's beautiful."

She swallowed with effort.

"Have you told Papa yet?" She held her breath in anticipation.

"No." She nodded into the silence. "But I have shared your situation with someone who wants to help." Mary's eyes widened, every nerve on high alert.

"And who is that, pray?" Cora's hand rested softly on her shoulder.

"Your grandmother. She's waiting just downstairs."

Granny.

Her pulse sped perceptibly, her palms warming.

"And you say she wants to help? She knows everything?" Cora knelt down until they were eye to eye.

"Yes."

Yes. Her eyes closed in relief.

"I should like to see her very much." Cora's smile broadened.

"Then I shall let her know."

She watched her mother take her leave, breathing in a silence that would soon be lost. If her grandmother knew, then her father would soon be informed. How much longer until word spread to all of her family, throughout the Abbey, across the entire village? She softly nudged his hair with the tip of her nose, depositing a light kiss on his ear. Measured steps on the stairs were slow, yet their progression steady. Mary quickly righted her clothing, wiping the baby's mouth as she turned her son for his great-grandmother's inspection. She stood, cradling his burrowing form close, placing a smile upon her face in anticipation.

Then Violet Crawley entered the room.

"Mary." The older woman extended her arms, an invitation offered that was readily accepted. They embraced gently, mindful of the baby now snuggled between them as dampened eyes held on to each other. She felt suddenly whole, pieces of herself missing too long finally fitting back together.

"Oh, Granny."

They drew back slightly, re-establishing a kinship of old existing in both blood and demeanor. Violet's hand reached out to the babe, touching his hair, staring at the precious marvel in front of her.

"So this is my great-grandson." He stretched in response.

"Yes," Mary whispered. Speech was suddenly difficult, the reality of her grandmother's touch still difficult to grasp.

"Christopher Joseph, I understand." She gazed at the woman before her, attempting to discern her thoughts.

"That's right."

Violet simply nodded.

"Very good. Christopher Crawley is a fine name, indeed." A small smile graced her lips.

"He's been going by Christopher Levinson." Violet's face pinched in distaste.

"Well, that will certainly be changing now, won't it? He is a Crawley, after all, on both his mother's and father's sides of the family."

She bit her lower lip. "Yes. I suppose it will."

The Dowager Countess nodded in satisfaction.

"Then let us have no more of this Levinson business. It is taxing enough to entertain the Americans when they pay us a visit. I don't need a daily reminder of their existence."

An actual chuckle emerged from Mary's chest. How she had missed her grandmother. They moved slowly to awaiting chairs, neither willing to let go of this newly forged connection.

"You're looking well, Mary. Better than I expected." Nerves began to settle.

"Thank you, Granny, but Isobel deserves much of the credit. I was in a rather horrid state a few weeks ago."

"Most women are after giving birth, my dear. Men have no idea." She smiled softly, feeling small fingers wrap around her own.

"No. They don't." The baby gurgled, drawing their attention as Violet smiled at him indulgently.

"I wish you had come to me sooner. I would have helped you, you know." Her eyes fell to her lap.

"I wasn't sure how you would react. Telling Mama was difficult enough."

"Oh, yes, I imagine that it was," Violet agreed. "But the fact remains that you are family. And no matter what happens, we Crawleys always take care of our own." Her face flushed, her brows drawing together.

"And Papa? Do you think he will feel the same way?" Violet exhaled audibly.

"He will if he knows what is good for him."

"I'm not so certain, Granny. He may turn us all away the moment he realizes what has transpired." A brow arched in her direction.

"Leave Robert to your mother. She has years of experience in making up his mind for him."

Her heart stilled.

"Has she gone then? To speak to Papa?" Crystal eyes gazed back at her in silence. "Dear God, Granny."

Lined lips pursed together.

"You've been through quite an ordeal and have attempted to shelter your family from scandal single-handedly. That will mean something to your father, Mary. Besides, you hold his future in your arms. That baby will quench any wrath he fires in your direction rather efficiently." She dropped her head.

"Do you really think so? Do you actually believe that Christopher could inherit Downton?" A reassuring smugness met her concern.

"He is a male child born to an heir wounded in battle who is very unlikely to father any more children. It's a simple as that." Mary's brow creased.

"But he is illegitimate." Violet didn't flinch.

"War changes things, Mary. As does a word or a strong suggestion whispered into the right ears."

"I doubt it will change Papa's response, all the same," Mary replied, doubt still evident in her tone. The older woman leaned forward on her cane.

"As I told you before, leave Robert to your mother and to me. Focus on taking care of your baby and preparing yourself for a marriage."

"Don't you mean a wedding?"

"I mean a marriage," Violet returned, refusing to blink. "A wedding is over within a few minutes; a marriage lasts a lifetime." She stared at her grandmother intently.

"I know it's not exactly the type of marriage all of you had in mind for us," Mary admitted, the wobble in her voice betrayed her nervousness.

"No. But it's the one you will have. And just how well it works out will be up to you and Matthew."

Her heart cinched uncomfortably. She feared to hope for too much. They sat in relative silence, relishing simple moments denied for too long. The child soon fell asleep, his warmth a comfort, her grandmother's presence a reassurance. Then a sound alerted them to something new, heavy feet and a deep voice carrying up the stairs from the main entrance. Their eyes met, so much communicated in complete silence.

Robert Crawley had arrived. And he did not sound happy. 


	9. Chapter 9

"Close the door, Mary."

Her grandmother's firm instruction cut through the dizzying fog clouding her reason. Limbs obeyed thoughtlessly, disconnected from a mind reeling from all that had occurred within a matter of hours. A year ago, she would have never conceived this was the life she would be living. How had she allowed things to veer so dreadfully off course?

"Now come and sit down," Violet continued, the calm measure of her tone steadying her granddaughter's legs. "You need to save your strength for what lies ahead."

Oh, God. What lay ahead...

She fought dwelling upon a future that frightened her, caught between its looming specter and a past that made her want to run from Crawley House back to her shelter in Cumberland. She swallowed with effort, her thoughts divorced from her body as she attempted to process the reality staring back at her. She and Matthew had reached an understanding. Was it too much to wish for time to adjust to this new yet fragile ground upon which they stood without interference, no matter how well intentioned?

Her head spun in reaction to the noise just outside their door. Heavy footfalls in the hall bore testament to her father's displeasure, their force nearly matching that of her own pulse racing uncomfortably in her neck.

"Papa is furious," Mary began, her lids fluttering quickly in agitation. "And Matthew is in no condition—"

"Matthew's condition is irrelevant," Violet interrupted, raising a hand in emphasis. "Regardless of his physical limitations or emotional state, he has to answer for the deplorable manner in which he has acted towards you."

Christopher stretched into her ribs as she lowered herself into the chair, holding him steadily as her eyes flew back to the door.

"But he is so broken, Granny," she argued back, tucking her son's blanket around him. "Matthew is in no state to face the full force of Papa's wrath."

"But he must, my dear," Violet insisted softly, leaning forward on her cane. "If anything at all is to be salvaged between them, Matthew must deal with Robert directly and take full responsibility for his failure to protect you. It will only make things worse for everyone involved if you barge in and attempt to shield him. You've done more than your part to protect the family in this unfortunate situation."

She exhaled with force, leaning back into the chair, shifting her son on to her chest. How soothing the languid weight of his bundled form, how beautiful the feathering of warm breath from small lungs caressing exposed skin. If only her father could see him for who he was rather than as a child to be hidden, a grandson she had denied a legitimate name while running off to lick her wounds in private.

"Do you think there is anything to be salvaged?" Mary questioned, her brows woven in concern. Her ribs constricted as she heard raised voices muffled by walls and distance, her fingers flexing involuntarily. "Be honest with me, Granny."

The Dowager Countess sat silent, her hesitation cinching Mary's gut.

"I don't know, my dear," she finally admitted, turning her ear towards the door. Violet's face reflected little, but a slight tremor in the older woman's hand made Mary wince. "Matthew should have proposed immediately rather than running away after the two of you…" She paused, facial muscles twitching independently as she sought the right words. "Had relations."

How innocent those words sounded, making Mary nearly laughed at their absurdity.

"You mean when we partook of each other as only a married couple should?" Her heart dropped as the statement flew form her lips, cheeks stinging as she forced herself to hold her grandmother's gaze.

"Those are your words," Violet put in frankly. "Not mine."

"You do know why he left, don't you." There was no question in her tone, only a bitterness upon her tongue as distasteful words were voiced in a space so confined.

"Yes. Your mother told me."

Eyes sealed themselves in a useless attempt to block the shame of her past. But the ensuing darkness only made clear his face as her secret became known, emphasized her emptiness as she felt his withdrawal, heightening her blatant exposure as he moved away. Away from her. Away from the life they had created. Away from a future that should have been theirs.

"And so you understand why he left me as he did." Eyes flashed back at her with the fervor of a much younger woman.

"No. I don't understand. No matter what happened in your past, he chose to be intimate with you. Making certain you were not left alone and with child was his responsibility, and he chose to ignore it."

"He was hurt," Mary attempted.

"He was prideful," Violet argued, raising her chest. "And his inaction left you in an impossible situation."

"I could have written to him," she began, restless fingers absorbing the softness of her son's blanket. "Told him of my pregnancy."

"Yes. That is true." Her mantle of guilt bore down all the heavier, weighing down shoulders attempting to carry too much alone. "But had he married you that letter could have been one of celebration," Violet continued. "Matthew, for all his vaulted nobility and sense of honor, placed what should have been shared responsibility squarely upon you. And there is no viable excuse for that."

A spark of anger flared in her breast, remnants of a flame stoked months ago abandoned in the haste of disillusionment, left to smolder in the ruins of a life tossed aside.

"So you think he should have overlooked my indiscretion with Mr. Pamuk?"

"I know he should have," Violet retorted unblinkingly. "If he was willing to take you to bed outside of marriage, what right did he have to be angry simply because he was not the first to do so?"

Her head shook of its own accord, musings racing ahead of speech as she attempted to process what her grandmother had just stated.

"We both know that the rules are different for women and men."

"All too true," her grandmother agreed, pursing her lips tightly. "But it is such an illogical double-standard. If men are allowed to be philanderers and experimenters, why are the women with whom they dally forced to accept the consequences alone?"

"Matthew is not a philanderer." The force of her declaration hung between them, and she stared down at her son, living evidence of a mistake she could regret no longer.

"No. I don't believe that he is." She looked to her grandmother, a measure of relief relaxing tightened ribs. "He has loved you for some time, of that I am certain," Violet continued, sighing heavily. "But that alone cannot fix what was broken months ago."

Pressure formed behind her cheeks, and she stared again at the door, understanding that soon she would exit this room and step under the scrutiny of a father who would never look at her in the same manner again.

"Can anything repair what we have done?"

How young she suddenly felt under her grandmother's gaze, almost as if she had just been caught nabbing a biscuit from the kitchen.

"Time and determination, I think," Violet answered softly, nodding slowly in emphasis. "And the strength to keep looking forward regardless of what anyone thinks or says about you."

"I've had to learn that to a certain degree already," Mary admitted, her chest absorbing a small sigh she felt everywhere. She cringed at the thought of what Matthew was enduring under her father's wrath, his expression when he held Christopher for the first time burned irrevocably into her memory. Regardless of who bore the fault for each misstep in their broken relationship, she knew all too well the despondency of facing the consequences alone. Solitude was a ruthless taskmaster.

The urge to stand with him melded with shards of anger she still bore, the desire to embrace him warring with her need for him feel a small measure of the shame she had carried since their encounter. How was this marriage truly supposed to function? Would they ever find their way back to each other when they both still bore crippling wounds?

"Oh, I know you have," her grandmother affirmed, leaning back as she studied the pair of them huddled together. "Let's just hope that Matthew will demonstrate the same measure of resilience. For everyone's sake."

* * *

 

Muscles stiffened, shoulders hunched. He braced himself for immediate attack as he would have were he still at the front, dreading what was to come with a sickness he had no choice but to ignore. Under circumstances crafted by his own pride, he had no defense, no weapon to counter the ammunition that would be hurled in his direction by a man who had every reason to be incensed.

Robert Crawley had entered the house. And Matthew knew he deserved everything that Mary's father would throw at him.

No. He deserved worse.

Footfalls came closer and he turned his chair in the direction of the door. He would face Robert directly, regardless of what was unleashed in righteous anger, in spite of the burning ire he must bear. For Mary. For Christopher. God knew he had to start somewhere.

He would cover them, would protect them from the man's wrath—no matter the cost to himself. His failure to care for the woman he loved and their son burned hotly in his chest, the need to shelter them from anything unpleasant so overpowering it nearly made him shake. The knob turned, and he swallowed hard, gripping the arms of his wheelchair as he took in as much air as he was able.

"So there you are." The observation cut as glacial eyes he had come to look upon as fatherly narrowed in his direction.

"Robert," he stated, speech deserting him with the same cruelty as had his ability to stand. "You have—"

"How dare you?"

The question was aimed with lethal precision, blocking any attempt at civility as the earl advanced on him with measured steps.

"You," Lord Grantham continued, nostrils flaring dangerously, "Whom I have embraced as a son, whom I have welcomed into Downton as one of my own and given every courtesy, every—" His voice broke, his face reddening in a manner Matthew had never observed. "I thought I knew you, Matthew!"

He felt the words as a slap, ears burning uncomfortably as fingers chilled to numbness. He swallowed again, filling lungs in an attempt to steady his emotions.

"Believe me, Robert, there is no one more disappointed in my behavior than I am." The words scraped his throat, and he watched a twitch form in the older man's cheek, knowing that the onslaught from the Earl of Grantham was just beginning.

"I somehow think Mary might disagree with that statement." His stomach hollowed instantly, lips trembling to form the right words.

"God knows she has every right to do so."

"Right? Mary has every right?" A laugh without mirth pushed from the older man's chest, his pulse visible in his temple. "You should have been more concerned about her rights when you so thoughtlessly abandoned her after taking liberties you had no right to claim!" His head fell, his hand taking up the hateful tremor as he fought down a wave of nausea. "How could you do such a thing, Matthew? To Mary of all people, for God's sake?"

It was more demand than question, the bite of his tone cutting into bone.

"I have no excuse," Matthew attempted, shaking his head in frustration. "None whatsoever."

"No, you don't!" the earl shot back, taking two steps in his direction. "Your lack of self-control I could forgive you living under the constant shadow of war and death. But to walk away from her and continue your engagement to Ms. Swire, leaving my daughter to bear your bastard alone?"

"Don't!" The command jumped from his tongue with a ferocity still new to him. "Call me whatever you will, but don't ever refer to my son with such an abhorrent term." Stares were unflinching as one father glared into another.

"It was you who dictated the circumstances of his birth. Not I."

"Then I am the one who deserves the censure," Matthew insisted, pushing himself as tall as he could. "Not him. This is your grandson we are speaking of, if you remember." The air between them chilled in its silence.

"Yes. My grandson." The words were icy, his expression unmoved. "My grandson who may never be able to inherit what should rightfully be his. My grandson who will be forever looked upon in a condescending manner, never fully accepted into the realm of his peers." Robert paused, heavy feet pacing in agitation as fingers twitched unbidden. "My grandson, whose birth should have been celebrated and proudly announced rather than hidden away in shame with his mother in some cottage by a lake!" Each utterance stung, and he fought the sinking sensation threatening to draw him under.

"You're right," Matthew cut in, running a hand through his hair. "If I had acted honorably, things would be very different now—for all of us."

"So why didn't you?" The question settled slowly, realization settling slowly through the tangled maze of his thoughts. Robert did not yet know about Kemal Pamuk. And he sure as hell wasn't going to be the one to tell him.

"I was already engaged, if you remember," Matthew attempted, his eyes flickering between his legs and his cousin.

"Yet you were intimate with Mary," the earl shot back. "It would seem to me that the need to protect her from the possibility of bearing your child out of wedlock would usurp that of disappointing the hopes of another. Unless—" An expression of horror overtook the earl's face, and he spun on Matthew with the agility of a much younger man. "Good God, did you engage in physical relations with Lavinia, as well?"

The shock of the accusation rendered him momentarily speechless, and he shook his head decidedly.

"No," Matthew returned, raising a hand in affirmation. "Never."

"Then why the hell didn't you make Mary an offer of marriage?" Eyes locked yet again, both men breathing heavily in a room now overheated.

"I cannot tell you." Any sign of compassion drained from the earl's face at his comment.

"I always thought that you and Mary both harbored feelings towards each other," Robert stated flatly, pausing to catch his breath. "And I should hope that mere physical need didn't spur your actions that afternoon."

"Of course it was more than that," Matthew interjected, narrowing his eyes. "I love her." His heart constricted, the disdain he felt for himself nearly crushing his windpipe. "I could have never been with Mary in such a manner had I not," Matthew clarified, his voice dropping under the weight. "I wouldn't use her so shamefully."

"But use her you did." The truth of Robert's accusation burned, singeing nerves already strung taught by the enormity of his shame.

He closed his eyes, the stench of smoke almost tangible, the instinct to fight back nearly overpowering.

"It wasn't like that," Matthew returned, needing his cousin to understand. "Neither of us intended for things to get so out of hand. It just—" He swallowed, clenching his fists, the memory how perfect she felt in his arms washing over him. "It just happened." It was suddenly difficult to breathe.

"That still doesn't explain why you had the audacity to walk away from her rather than attempting to make things right."

His gut twisted painfully, the issue he kept attempting to circumvent following him around with the persistence of an unwanted dog.

"I told you already," Matthew replied through clenched teeth. "I have no valid excuse for how I reacted. Believe me, I feel horribly guilty about what happened—"

"That's not good enough!" His hand continued to shake, making him feel even more out of control of a situation he should have anticipated before it was ever created.

"I'm sorry, Robert, but I cannot change what happened all those months ago. All I can do now is attempt to repair what damaged I have already inflicted. Believe me when I say that I will do whatever it takes to both earn Mary's forgiveness and to be a proper husband to her and father to our son." A measured silence met his impassioned declaration.

"So you have finally made her an offer of marriage." His sigh was heavy and audible.

"Of course I have. The moment I learned of Christopher's existence."

"And has she accepted?" Dark eyes creased from burdens too heavy shone in his mind's eye, her expression at his proposal hovering before him in remembrance.

"Yes," Matthew answered, wishing their engagement could have been a cause for celebration. "She has accepted."

"Well, thank God for that much, at least." Robert resumed his pacing, never taking his eyes from the younger man as if sizing up his prey. "When exactly will this wedding take place? Dare we hope for tomorrow?"

"I shall leave that up to Mary," Matthew contended, wheeling himself in Robert's direction. "But I think it's safe to say that we shall not wait too long."

"You've waited far too long already," Robert shot back, indignation hovering about him like a cloak. "And you still haven't explained to me why this offer was not given before Mary chose to isolate herself from her family in a doomed attempt to hide her condition." Matthew bit back words he knew he would regret, pushing down frustration pulsating just beneath his pores.

"I have already told you that I can offer you no explanation. I acted worse than a cad and shall accept any repercussions that must follow my actions. But leave Mary out of this. She deserves no further censure from anyone."

Blood stilled in his veins at the older man's chuckle, the tremor finally beginning to abate as his ire rose.

"No further censure," Robert echoed. "Do you really believe you can shield her from it? Even if you married her within the hour, you cannot prevent the fact that it will follow Mary for the rest of her life."

"Perhaps not," Matthew returned hotly, "but I shall most certainly try."

"I don't expect to be shielded."

How she had slipped in the room unnoticed by either of them was a mystery. Yet there she stood, spine straight, eyes direct, breathing evenly as she stood before her father for the first time in nearly a year. And she held the silent attention of both men with fingers she prayed did not tremble visibly.

"Mary."

Her father's whisper touched her physically, traversing the small space between them with an efficiency borne of blood.

"Hello, Papa." The words nearly stuck in her throat, a lump formed the moment she saw the two of them starting back at her. An uneasy silence settled, one that sucked air from her lungs and moisture from her lips. "Please. Say something."

Robert's brow flexed at her plea, his expression processing more than she had ever seen him take in at one moment.

"I don't know what to say, Mary," he admitted weakly. His jaw worked in silence, fingers tightening into a fist of sought composure. Her stomach fluttered oddly, knees trembling beneath the cover of her skirts as she looked fully into the eyes of her father.

"You could start with welcome home."


	10. Chapter 10

Robert's eyes held her fast, the brew of pain shrouded in pride something Mary recognized all too well.

"Welcome home." The flatness of his tone stung, and she fought back tears threatening with a will she clasped feverishly.

"I find it rather sad that I was greeted with more enthusiasm by Branson than by you." His gaze widened in a flash.

"Don't," Robert commanded, raising his hand in emphasis. "You are fully aware of the complexity of the situation you have brought back with you."

His assertion hurt, just as she had anticipated. She cursed her emotional weakness, understanding that she could only blame so much of it on the lingering aftermath of giving birth.

"Christopher is not a situation."

Matthew's interruption drew their immediate attention, and he thought he saw the slightest trace of a smile on her lips, shimmering upon her mouth as starlight on the water. There—but just barely.

"No," Robert agreed, looking between the pair of them. "But he is the product of a most unfortunate one created by the two of you—one that must now be borne by the entire family."

"I know it is difficult," Mary stated, clasping her fingers in agitation. "But I cannot think of it as completely unfortunate when he was the end result."

"Don't be foolish, Mary," her father fought back, staring at her in exasperation. "It will be harder on your son than anyone. This will be a stigma he must bear for the rest of his life." Her chest caved in at his declaration, the need to take her son and escape such scrutiny pressing against her uncomfortably.

"Not if I have anything to say about it," Matthew rebutted, wheeling himself knee to knee with the earl. "I shall do whatever it takes to shield and protect my son from unwarranted censure." Her heart thudded against her rib cage, and she glimpsed a determination of will she had not witnessed since he walked away from her the first time. But this time, he was moving in her direction. She only prayed he wouldn't change course.

"Censure brought about by your own actions," Robert threw back, pointing a finger directly at Matthew.

"We know, Papa," Mary stated, raising her hands in exasperation. "We are well aware of how our child was conceived."

Matthew's shoulders shook slightly in a laughter without mirth.

"Don't be smart, Mary," her father returned sharply, spinning on his heels.

"I'm not. I'm being honest." She looked from one to the other, these men just becoming aware of what she had carried in silence for months. "There is hardly any mystery in what happened between Matthew and me," she continued, garnering courage with every word given voice. "There is only one way of conceiving a child outside of the divine, and we're all well aware that there was no heavenly intervention in this case."

"This conversation is irrelevant and unnecessary," Robert insisted, his face reddening.

"It is hardly irrelevant," Mary insisted, stepping towards her father. "The fact that Matthew and I had intimate relations can no longer be hidden."

"No. It cannot," Robert spat, nostrils flaring. "It is a shameful fact of which everyone is now well aware." He paced restlessly, summoning a restraint Mary knew was on the verge of snapping. "If the two of you had done what you should have done immediately after your indiscretion, we would not be facing this predicament for which there is no viable solution."

"You mean the predicament of having a daughter who has borne a child out of wedlock." The calmness of her tone startled even herself.

"Mary," Matthew intervened, the urgency in his tone nearly a plea. "Don't."

"Don't what?" she bit back. "Don't state the obvious? Don't admit to the truth of what has happened? Don't own up to the fact that I have shamed my family?" She drew a breath, fisting hands in a nervous reflex. "I have lived with this reality for months now," she continued, staring at both of them hard. "I don't necessarily like the circumstances in which we find ourselves, but here we are. We cannot change what has happened, and yelling at each other certainly won't get us anywhere."

"That's all very well, indeed," her father retorted, "But you cannot expect those of us just learning of this turn of events to simply accept them and move on as if nothing has changed."

"Why not?" Mary returned smoothly. "Granny has." Robert turned on her quickly, raising a hand.

"You have not shamed the family, Mary," Matthew cut in, wheeling himself directly into the fray. "You acted with great courage and did everything in your power to shield everyone involved except yourself." He ran restless fingers through his hair, pressing his lips together tightly. "I am the one who acted shamefully, the only one who deserves whatever retaliation that must be faced."

"And just how do you propose to do that?" Robert questioned. Pressure settled upon his shoulders as two pairs of curious eyes bore into him.

"I was thinking," he began, staring directly back at Mary. "Perhaps it would be best if we went north after we are married—back to Cumberland to get our bearings."

She had half-expected this after implications he had voiced earlier, yet to hear it stated so clearly left her somewhat dumb-struck. To go back as his wife to the life she had crafted without him, to share a bed with him in the house where she had cursed his very existence. She wasn't certain how well this would work.

"Do you really think that running away is a viable answer?" Robert threw back. "That your actions will be considered acceptable simply because you are living elsewhere?"

"We wouldn't be running away," Matthew asserted, becoming more and more convinced that this plan of action might be best. "We would simply put some distance between ourselves and the immediate fall-out that is likely to occur." The silence that greeted him sat heavily upon his chest.

"And just how long do you intend to stay there?" Robert questioned. "Until your son is grown? You have responsibilities to Downton, Matthew, regardless of the deplorable way in which you have conducted yourself, responsibilities you must take seriously."

"You know I take them seriously," Matthew shot back, shaking his head. "But I must place Mary and Christopher's well-being first this time. Surely you must see that." The earl sighed audibly, pacing in his frustration.

"Do you agree with this plan, Mary?" he asked, forcing her to swallow down the pastiness in her mouth. Her mind was still spinning, her thoughts so jumbled that summoning clarity required more energy than she possessed.

"I think it may be our best option," she heard herself respond, feeling somewhat detached from her body. "At least this way, Christopher can begin his life without censure or judgment."

"And you think it preferable for him to face his difficulties all at once?" her father questioned, taking a step in her direction. "To be confronted with stares and whispers for which he is unprepared?"

"Do you think it preferable for him to grow up surrounded by hostility?" Mary shot back, a primal protectiveness snaking through her veins. "He is a child—a child who has done nothing wrong."

"Be that as it may, he will bear the brunt of your actions, and you know it," Robert insisted.

"All the more reason to shelter him as best as we can," Matthew retaliated, moving towards Mary.

"Just as you sheltered my daughter when you left her with child and without an offer of marriage?" The statement darkened the open space between them.

"Why go into this right now?" Mary inquired, sighing heavily in an attempt to chase the weariness from her limbs.

"There is no need," Matthew agreed, his tone sharpening as he tried to draw Mary's attention. "The past is the past, and we must now concentrate our efforts towards the future."

"You speak as though the past will simply go away," Robert mused, shaking his head. "That your reasons for not marrying sooner will no longer matter simply because you are now engaged."

"Let's not go back to that line of discussion," Matthew rebutted, his countenance darkening.

"You mean the reason you refused to offer Mary the proposal she deserved?" Robert spat, eyes flashing dangerously.

"Oh, for God's sake," Mary exclaimed, tossing up her hands, tired of the entire conversation. "Matthew has forgiven me my encounter with Mr. Pamuk. Why can't you?"

The shift in the room's atmosphere was palpable.

"What?"

A look of bewilderment met her head on, and she stared back at her father, a sickening realization burrowing into her joints. He had not known of her past folly. She had just convicted herself.

"The dead Turk?" Robert questioned, his brow creased. "What does he have to do with any of this?"

"Nothing," Matthew stated, maneuvering his chair in front of her, facing Robert directly. "Nothing at all. Now can we kindly get back to the discussion at hand?"

"Mary?" Her father's summons drew her gaze, holding her captive in a vice from which she could not break away. Her heart thudded audibly in her temples as all feeling rushed to her feet.

"Everything, actually," she admitted softly, watching her father's eyes narrow in confusion. "He's the reason Matthew didn't propose after we—"

"Stop it, Mary!" Matthew exclaimed, raising his hand. "There is no need to bring this up at all."

"There is every need," she argued. "I'm tired of hiding behind half-truths and deception. I'd prefer just to face it all and be done with it."

"What is it you feel the need to face?" her father shot back, stepping closer. "Mary, I really—"

"Mr. Pamuk didn't die in his bead all those years ago," she blurted out, moving past Matthew, stepping over his protest. "He died in mine." She stood unflinching, spine straight, neck regal, staring back at her father in a manner that both chilled him and flooded his chest with admiration.

"Wait," Robert stammered, turning away from her as he moved towards the window. "Are you saying that—"

"I am saying that when Matthew and I were together, it was not my first experience with a man." The room seemed somehow suspended, and she watched the blood drain from her father's face as Matthew buried his in his hand. "When Matthew realized this, he was hurt and angry," she continued, swallowing back the taste of bile burning her throat. "He then had to return to duty, and we were never given the opportunity to properly discuss it."

"To properly discuss it," Robert echoed softly, rubbing his chin in disbelief.

"That still doesn't excuse my behavior," Matthew murmured, raising his face to hers.

"This doesn't excuse anything!" Robert's chest was heaving, his face now red.

"I'm sorry to lay this on you on top of everything else," Mary stated. "I assumed that Mama had already told you when she informed you about Christopher."

"No," her father bit back. "Your mother conveniently left out those details." She closed her eyes, wishing she had taken a moment to speak with her mother before bursting into the line of fire. "My God, Mary," Robert continued, looking at her as if she had morphed into a being he didn't recognize. "How could you?"

"Stop it, Robert," Matthew intervened, the boldness of his tone catching Mary off guard. "Direct any accusations you have at me, not at her."

"I'll address whomever I choose," the Earl snapped back, moving in uncomfortably close. "I'm waiting for an explanation, Mary."

"I'm afraid I don't have much of one to offer," she returned, dropping her hands. "I made a mistake, one I have regretted more than you can possibly know."

"One you shouldn't carry the blame for any longer," Matthew added firmly. "He showed up uninvited, Robert. The bastard forced his way into her room."

"Wait," Robert cut in. "He forced you?"

"Not like that," Mary sighed, feeling an urgent need to flee from the room.

"But he took advantage, nonetheless," Matthew insisted. "He put you in an impossible situation, Mary, one over which you had little to no control."

"Just as you did?" Robert shot back, pointing at Matthew squarely in the chest, sucking the breath from his lungs. He opened his mouth, but nothing came out.

"Being with Matthew was my choice," Mary insisted, stepping in between the two men. "There was no coercion involved on his part."

"But he did put you in an impossible situation," her father retaliated. "There is no denying that, is there Matthew?" He stared up at Robert, taking in the mixture of ire, horror and confusion battling for dominance within the older man.

"No. There isn't," Matthew admitted, guilt twisting his intestines yet again. "I allowed my wounded pride to keep me from seeing the truth and doing what was right. As I told you earlier, Robert, I am the one who deserves censure, not Mary. Not Christopher."

"My God, what have you two done?"

She felt Matthew's hand graze her arm, a show of solidarity that made her tremble and ache.

"Perhaps it's time you met your grandson, Robert."

Her mother's voice startled them all, as did the soft wail of her son. Cora entered the room unflinchingly, carrying the fussy bundle directly to her husband as she bounced him lightly in a soothing motion.

"Robert, meet Christopher," Lady Grantham continued in a soft voice, smiling down at the babe in her arms. "Christopher, meet your grandfather." The Earl stood as stoically as possible, attempting not to be effected by the infant before him. "Why don't you hold him?" Cora insisted, moving the child into Robert's arms before he had a chance to protest. He stared down at the squirming form, his expression a mixture of hurt and wonder as he cradled him awkwardly. "He is beautiful, isn't he?" The words of his wife cut through, rendering him uncomfortably helpless.

"Yes," Robert admitted in a whisper. "He is."

Mary's eyes widened in an attempt to take it all in. Her parents—holding her son, her illegitimate son. Matthew—the man who nearly broke her, now acting as both her defender and intended. It all hit her with force of an incoming tide, and her knees started to shake.

"You should sit down," Matthew noted, a slight tone of alarm in his voice, drawing the gazes of both of her parents.

"Yes, you should," Cora agreed, moving to her daughter and taking her arm, guiding her to the nearest chair. "You've been through quite an ordeal today."

"I'm fine," Mary insisted feebly, only half-believing her own assertion.

"Of course you are," Cora tossed back, "But you should save your strength. Being a new mother can take its toll on a body, and with all of the emotional stress you have had to manage, it's a wonder you haven't collapsed." Her reprimand was clear, hitting masculine targets with precision as both looked away, unable to maintain eye contact.

"Perhaps you should go and lie down, Mary," Matthew offered, wheeling towards her slowly.

"And give you the opportunity to discuss me in my absence?" she mused, rubbing her forehead which was beginning to throb. "I'll stay, if you don't mind."

"What do you need?" her mother asked, the intensity of her scrutiny making Mary shift unconsciously.

"Some water, please," she answered, forcing herself to give her mother a tight smile as Cora exited the room. Christopher's insistent protest demanded her attention, and she extended her arms towards her father, noting his discomfort. Knotted muscles unwound as her son's familiar weight nuzzled into her chest, her world somehow less threatening as long as she held her child close. Cora returned with a glass, followed closely by Isobel who moved to stand by her son.

"So this has turned into a town meeting?" Robert quipped, feeling decidedly outnumbered.

"Lady Grantham suggested that I join the discussion," Isobel returned brightly, glancing down at Matthew. "But I can leave if you feel that the timing is inappropriate."

"No," Mary stated, looking to the woman who would soon be her mother-in-law. "There's nothing to be said that you already don't know or won't hear of soon."

"So Isobel was already aware of the Pamuk situation, as well," Robert observed. "Am I the only one who was left completely in the dark concerning this matter?"

"No," Cora replied evenly. "Sybil doesn't know."

"Sybil." It came out as a laugh, one that drew no smiles in response. "My youngest daughter," Robert continued, looking back to them all. "I was given the same consideration as Sybil."

"Isobel was only recently informed," Mary inserted, creasing her brow. "When she discovered my whereabouts. You needn't feel as though you were purposely excluded, Papa."

"You neglected to inform me of what happened with Mr. Pamuk, your tryst with Matthew, your pregnancy, and the birth of my grandson," Robert retorted, his gaze piercing. "Why on earth should I feel excluded from the goings-on in my own home?"

"Forgive me, Robert, but is that the most pressing matter here?" Isobel inserted, garnering attention from the entire assembly. "It seems to me we should be discussing and planning a wedding as well as helping Mary and Matthew make plans for their future life rather than worrying about who learned what information when."

"She's right, Robert," Cora agreed softly, halting his protest before it could be voiced. "We can mull over those other details later. We have more important business to discuss."

"It would seem I have been overruled," Robert observed, his displeasure evident. "Fine. Let's discuss how Matthew believes that it would be best for he and Mary to take the baby and return north indefinitely." A silence hovered around them all, Cora and Isobel exchanging glances Mary attempted futilely to read.

"What is it?" she finally asked, the unknown tensing her shoulders.

"Nothing, really," Isobel replied. "It's just that Lady Grantham and I were just discussing the merits of such a course of action in the other room."

"So you like the idea?" Matthew inquired. "You'll support us in this?"

"My dear, we shall support you no matter where the three of you decide to settle temporarily," Isobel confirmed, touching his shoulder. "But yes, we think this might be a wise move."

"Cora?" Robert breathed, staring at his wife in astonishment.

"Think about it, Robert," Lady Grantham returned. "This will give Mary and Matthew time to become reacquainted, and will also allow people here to adjust to the idea of them being married and having a child without them having to live under constant scrutiny."

"And how is Mary to care for both her son and her husband? Is she to resign herself to the life of a care-giver?"

The question hit Matthew with force, burning his cheeks as that reality took hold.

"We can hire a nurse," Cora replied. "One from that area who could help them on a full-time basis. And a nanny." Mary's head began to swim.

"The house isn't that large, Mama," she put in. "I'm not certain we have sleeping quarters for that many."

"Then the nanny can come on a daily basis," Cora amended. "Although you will have to cover night duty."

"I already cover night duty," Mary returned curtly. "And day duty, for that matter."

"A nursing mother is on-call at all hours," Isobel agreed, deliberately avoiding Robert's uneasy expression. "But a part-time nanny could be helpful for you, my dear."

"Then it's settled," Cora affirmed, moving on quickly to the next order of business. "Now, shall we discuss the wedding?"

It seemed as though the subject was closed.

Christopher made a sound, and Mary looked down into dark eyes staring up at her in recognition. Yes—he knew her, was a part of her in a manner no other human being could claim. She stroked his head, wishing just a moment for the solitude of their nursery back in Cumberland. Yet that solitude had borne the weight of crushing loneliness and loss. Now her family was no longer lost to her, and she and Matthew would be married.

Oh, God. Was she ready for this? Could she be the kind of wife he needed when there was still such hurt between them?

Matthew's eyes met hers across the room, fastening on securely, sharing questions harbored by them both. They were the living wounded, bearing scars both visible and hidden from the naked eye. How would they manage, she wondered, separated from all who knew them, left to find their way back together in seclusion? Was this really such a good idea, after all? He then smiled, and her heart squeezed, the need to believe in him warring with the searing pain dealt by his hand. She could not yet trust Matthew, but neither did she trust herself, her judgment when it came to him sorely lacking in both stamina and will.

Their son gurgled and yawned, and a small hand stretched searchingly towards her chin. She leaned into his touch, smiling into a face more precious to her than the breath that filled her lungs. A fire borne of blood infused her veins, lighting her from the inside with a determination beyond her own. Her feelings were irrelevant when it came to their future. This had to work. For him. For Christopher. And for her child, she would see it done.


	11. Chapter 11

She awoke suddenly, sucking air into her lungs with the ferocity of one who had just been pulled from the sea. Her body hoisted her up straight, and she glanced around the room, allowing her eyes to focus on surroundings still not quite familiar.

She was guest here, at Crawley House. And today was her wedding day.

She moved her feet out from under the covers, sliding them into the comfort of warm slippers as her arms fought off a chill. Somber clouds didn't bode well for the dress she had chosen, and she now wished she had insisted on a deeper hue than the egg shell she had purchased at the insistence of her mother. How ironic to be a bride with so little input into the planning of her own ceremony. How unlike her to care so little.

A special license had been obtained, their need to wed in haste and privacy unquestioned by the proper authorities. The mere thought of having to endure the reading of the banns made her want to recoil, the scrutiny of the church too heavy for her to contemplate. She slid frozen fingers beneath her arms, finding little comfort there as she sought the covering of her robe. Christopher still lay sleeping in the cradle her mother had purchased, although Cora had left it still protesting Mary's decision not to stay at Downton. Mary had latched onto Isobel's invitation with the fervor of a drowning woman, more thankful than she could voice for the temporary reprieve graciously laid at her feet. Her mind was too crowded, her spirit too unsteady to face the stares of those who dwelled within walls of her home.

And Matthew was there. It was just too much.

Her brow creased in thought, an ache beginning in her temples as she imagined how it would be when she arrived there today. Whispers hidden from the family, discussions that would take place out of her hearing, glances shot in her direction from lowered brows and placid faces. She swallowed down a foul taste in her mouth, closing her eyes in an attempt to find a strength she feared lost to her. When she next entered Downton's hallowed halls, she would be married. She would be his wife.

This was good, this was right, yet so wrong and terrifying, as well. To marry the man she loved too much under circumstances so out of order, to become his when she sometimes feared she both loved and hated him in equal measure, how would they survive? How would they build a marriage? His injury forbade physical intimacy, a fact for which she was quietly thankful as the act had brought her nothing but pain. But how such knowledge must eat at Matthew, how must it make him feel even less of a man than he already did.

Isobel had confessed privately that there was a chance his injury would heal, a possibility Mary prayed in secret would come about. No matter the hurt between them, she shattered internally every time she saw him in that chair. He had become a part of her the afternoon their child had been conceived, bound to her by cords unbreakable no matter how frayed they had become. Yes—she wanted him to be whole again. But how would she handle it if he did?

It was a question for which she had no answer.

She fought down a knot in her stomach as the waking sounds of her son caught her attention. This was for him, she reminded herself as she had many times over the past several days. Their hasty union was for Christopher—for his future, for what could be salvaged of his reputation. Mary cupped the child in her arms, bringing him to her breast in a routine that soothed them both. Anna would be here soon, she knew, to assist her in dressing, to bolster her spirits. Her presence the past few days had been a balm to savaged nerves, her smiling acceptance something Mary drank in greedily, her conversation a nocturne in which she wrapped wayward thoughts. If only Anna could come with them to Cumberland.

She must end this line of thought immediately. Flights of fancy offered no viable solutions. Anna would remain at Downton, and she and Matthew would head to the North to dwell among people they didn't know and repair a life they must accept. This was now her existence. This was reality.

A warm hand reached for her breast as her son burrowed in closer, the rhythmic tug on her nipple almost hypnotic. She closed her eyes and was transported too quickly back to the cabin, into arms that stroked her nakedness, to lips that had kissed places kept hidden. She sensed whispered endearments breathed into her pores, caresses crystalline in their perfection until marred by the stigma of her past. Oh, God, Matthew. How had they allowed what had been beautiful to become so corrupt?

He had been a regular caller, arriving yesterday with a bouquet of roses that had rendered her speechless. Conversation was stilted, awkwardness thick, yet they had persevered through tea until Christopher awakened from his nap. As uncomfortable as they were with each other, Matthew was a natural with his son. The manner in which he held him had grown more familiar, the joy on his face unmistakable the moment his child entered the room. Mary harbored no doubts concerning his suitability as a father. Their son would be cherished by both of his parents, regardless of how their relationship played out.

_I will make this right, Mary. For all of us. I am determined._

He was determined.

She looked at the roses now in a vase on the vanity, situated strategically next to a box he had instructed her not to open until this morning. Dread and anticipation gripped her insides, flooding her with a rush of nerves she felt down to her feet. She had nothing for him, she had apologized, feeling uneasy at being the recipient of so much attention when she had been given so little for so long.

_You've already given me everything when you gave me Christopher and agreed to be wife. It's my turn now. Please allow me to at least attempt to make up for lost time._

Her response had been a silent nod.

_Lost time._

Months of dazed confusion and bleakness now collided with a future that stood on wobbly legs at best. But it was there, at least, bearing with it a chance for her son to claim both his name and his title, even as it teased her with glimpses of hope she dared not yet entertain. A knock on her door drew her from her musings, and she covered her exposure with her son's blanket.

"Come in," she instructed, expecting Anna to enter on queue. But it was her mother who stood now in the doorway, beaming at her with eyes unnaturally bright.

"Good morning," Cora smiled, entering quickly and shutting the door. "How are you, Mary?"

She honestly had no idea.

"Alright," she answered, attempting to shift Christopher to her other breast discreetly. "Or as well as can be expected under the circumstances."

"Are you at all nervous?" her mother pressed, eyeing Mary too closely for her own comfort.

"If I just admit to it, will you stop asking so many questions?" Cora shot her a look Mary held without blinking, moving to a nearby chair and making herself at home.

"I take it the roses are from Matthew," Lady Grantham observed, gazing at them appreciatively. "They're lovely."

"Yes, they are," Mary retorted, easing further into her chair.

"And is the package from him, as well?" Cora prodded relentlessly.

"Didn't I just say something about not asking questions?" Mary breathed, her frustration tolerance precariously low.

"Very well," her mother returned. "But it's good to see him at least making an attempt to do the right thing."

"I'm not certain what the right thing is anymore, to be honest," Mary tossed back. "My life has been hazy for so long that clarity is almost painful."

"We both know you're doing the right thing in marrying Matthew," Cora stated flatly, leaning forward. "It's what is best for you and for Christopher. That is indisputable, Mary."

"Nothing is indisputable," she argued, feeling more on edge with every word her mother spoke.

"The fact that you are now a mother is," Lady Grantham asserted. "As is the fact that you are not yet married." Mary sighed in exasperation, fighting the urge to take Christopher and flee the room. "You're not having second thoughts, are you?" She gazed back at her mother with eyes that nearly betrayed her.

"I can't afford second thoughts," she answered. "Not anymore." They sat in silence, too many feelings competing for dominance in a body that was already tired.

"You told me just days ago that you still love Matthew," Cora dared. "And that he professes to loving you."

Love. The word bit and soothed simultaneously.

"Yes," Mary admitted. "I did."

"And I assume that hasn't changed," her mother continued, narrowing her gaze.

"No," Mary confirmed. "But it's complicated, Mama. Loving Matthew hurts." Loving Matthew had nearly destroyed her.

"I know it does," Cora replied softly. "But all love hurts at some point, Mary. It's up to you and Matthew to help each other heal." The mere concept of healing dangled just out of her reach.

"Sometimes I wonder if we're capable of it." The words slipped from her, and for a moment she wished she could summon them back.

"You're capable of more than you realize," her mother affirmed. "The past several months have proven that." Small lips slid from her breast as Christopher began to fight against his covering, whimpering in protest with lungs gaining strength. "I'll leave for now," Cora offered as she stood. "But I'm on your side, Mary. Do remember that."

The door closed, leaving her again in relative solitude. Mary raised her son to her shoulder, rubbing his back to soothe his stomach, grabbing a cloth to protect her nightgown. She stood with him slowly, making her way towards the vanity and the box given to her by his father.

"I suppose it's time to open this," she crooned, her voice hushed and mellow. "I wonder what your Papa has given to us."

She picked it up and returned to their seat, working nervously to loosen ribbons while balancing her son on her chest. Paper was easier to disengage, and she opened a small box, staring wide-eyed at what lay inside. It was the dog, the small stuffed dog she had pressed into his palm when he had left her so long ago, on that day that had sealed their fate.

She held it with trembling fingers, her breath now coming in snatches as she drew a note from him into her line of sight.

_My Dearest Mary, I_

_hope you will accept this good luck token you so generously bestowed upon me all those months ago. I credit it for saving my life and bringing me back to you. How welcome my presence is in your life is questionable, I know, and I could never fault you for any misgivings you may hold as we embark upon this new life together. God only knows that you have every right._

_We shall face challenges ahead, you most of all, my darling, as you are accepting a husband with physical limitations. How I wish I were a whole man again, one who could care for you properly, one who could stand beside you rather than face life from a chair. But in spite of my disabilities, I shall never cease to do all that I can to earn back your trust and respect and to build a life for you and Christopher._

_Thank you for making me a father. Thank you for agreeing to become my wife. I now wish you such good luck as you will have to live with me from now on, a fete my mother assures me takes a great amount stamina. I shall see you at the church._

_All of my love, Matthew_

All of his love. Such good luck.

She only prayed it would be enough.

* * *

 

This wasn't how it was supposed to have been. It was his wedding day, the day he would meet his bride privately in the front of the church. The day he would marry Lady Mary Crawley. And he was doing it from a wheelchair.

Damn. Damn. And damn it all again.

His stomach had been off all morning, rocking precariously as he fought down persistent fears of letting her down. How could he even attempt to be an adequate husband for a woman such as Mary? She deserved a gallant procession, the accolades and adoration of the entire village, an extravagant celebration fitting of her station as an earl's daughter. Yet she was settling for a broken heir who couldn't even support his own weight throughout the ceremony, one who had left her heart-broken, shamed, and pregnant. And one who would never be able to make love to her properly or grant her another child.

He hated himself with as much passion as he loved her and their son.

The thoughts of his child feathered a shred of hope across a heart scarred. He could no longer afford to wallow in self-loathing with his nose buried in the sand. He was a father now, father to a son he was determined would be a better man than he. Matthew was actually relieved that his father wasn't here today, although he felt like a reprobate for harboring such thoughts. How disappointed Reginald Crawley would have been to know his son had acted in such a manner towards a woman. His mother's admonishment had been difficult enough. To have borne the weight of dishonoring both parents would have been more than he could have shouldered at the moment.

But Mary had no choice.

Today she would stand under the scrutiny of both parents and her grandmother, of sisters and an aunt, and she would return to her rightful home to face many who had known her since she was a girl. This she would do now as a marked woman, a woman many would consider fallen, a woman he had forever branded when his body had entered hers. Yet she continued to bear it with a dignity etched into her spine and a steadiness that set her apart. He marveled at her skills as a mother, felt a pride for which he had no right whenever he witnessed the raw love she held for their baby. Her strength humbled him with the challenge it laid at his feet.

_They're beautiful, Matthew. I wasn't expecting flowers._

_And what were you expecting, Mary?_

There had been no answer, only a fixed gaze into her tea. But he knew what she had been thinking, words she had censored to spare his feelings yet again. She expected what he had given her since the day he walked out of that cabin and out of her life: nothing.

What a stellar beginning to a marriage.

_I believe you, Matthew. But I'm not certain that I can trust you just yet._

Truth voiced from her lips the day he met his son still weighed on him heavily, prompting him to show her, to convince her that she was worth far more than he could ever offer. At least he would never quit trying to persuade her of that fact. He adjusted his cuff links yet again, impatient for the moment he would make her his wife, dreading the bumpy start he was certain they would experience. Would they share a bed tonight? Would she even want to sleep in the same room? Would she allow him to take her arm, to hold her hand, to kiss her cheek? Or would she shy away, repulsed by any physical display of affection, no matter how limited in scope? Would a proper kiss from him ever be welcomed by his wife?

Restless fingers sought his pocket, and he shook his head at its emptiness. It was now in her keeping, the talisman he had stroked daily since she had made him promise to bring it back. He had nearly thrown it to the ground when he had stalked away from her, had examined it in anger with tears pooling and shaking fists. But to let it go had been impossible, to be apart from it akin to losing a lung. But this was right. It was time. Perhaps the gesture would mean as much to her as it did to him. Perhaps the dog would remind her of happier moments, of a past shared and partaken. Of flirting over sandwiches, of laughing over salty pudding, of a kiss at the train station that had shaken all he thought he knew. He needed her even more than she needed him. And he wanted her more desperately than he craved the use of his legs.

A brisk rap at his door caught his attention. "Yes," he called out, wondering if Bates had left something behind.

"May I come in?"

It was the smiling face of his mother that greeted him, a slight quiver in her lips the only indicator of conflicting emotions.

"Of course," he returned, looking back at her. "You look lovely, mother."

"I took extra care this morning," she admitted, moving to the nearest chair. "It's not every day that one gets to be the mother of the groom." His eyes fell to his lap as he shook his head yet again.

"I'm sorry the circumstances are not better," he stated. "I've not exactly given you any reason to be proud." Her back straightened in response.

"Stop it, Matthew," Isobel instructed firmly, narrowing her gaze. "You mustn't begin your marriage feeling defeated. Mary needs you to be strong for her today. She needs you to bolster her courage, not to drain it."

"I believe Mary holds the lion's share of courage in this relationship," he observed flatly.

"She has been extremely brave," Isobel agreed. "Of that, there is no question. But constantly weathering the elements can be exhausting, especially to a new mother. I believe it would mean the world to her to have you meet her with confidence at the church today." How he wished he had more of that to offer.

"Has she told you this?" Matthew inquired, leaning forward in his chair. Isobel shook her head.

"You know Mary," she observed. "She's quite adept at keeping things hidden. But I've learned to read her somewhat during our time together in Cumberland. Underneath that polished persona is a frightened and bruised young woman too private to ask for help under most circumstances."

"But she will allow you to step in if needed," Matthew added quietly. "You aren't the one who bruised her."

"No," Isobel agreed. "But had both you and she not been in such dire straits when I found her, I doubt she would have trusted me to the extent that she has." She pursed her lips tightly, folding and refolding her hands. "Learning of your injury was a harsh blow to her, Matthew. Mary loves you more than you know."

"God only knows why."

Isobel stood slowly, walking with measured steps until she stood beside him.

"Love isn't logical, I'm afraid. Surely you've realized that by now."

Of course he realized it. His lapse of judgment had tormented him for months on end. That day, that moment, standing with her alone in that cabin, unable to look away, too possessed by her to reason, too in love with her to think. What had begun as innocent touches had been engulfed by blind passion, spurred on by emotion and the fragility of life. The taste of her skin had never left him, the essence of her still in his pores. The feel of long fingers buried in his hair, clutching his shoulders, stroking his back, these were ingrained now, as vital to his existence as the blood in his veins.

"How am I supposed to do this, mother?"

The raw ache in his voice constricted her chest, making her chin quiver as she steadied her hand.

"Be honest with her," she instructed, touching his shoulder. "And let her be honest with you, even if it hurts. Show her she is loved. Let her hear it from you with regularity, even if she cannot reciprocate for some time." Isobel paused, breathing in audibly as she stared hard at her son. "Be patient with her, Matthew, especially when it comes to engaging any form of physical intimacy." His face overheated as blood rushed to his head.

"The marriage bed is not exactly a concern for us," he muttered, unable to hold her gaze. "Or have you forgotten?"

"There are other ways to be intimate," she stated matter-of-factly, taking him by surprise. "Ones I hope you will both want to explore someday as trust is rebuilt between you. But do keep in mind that Mary has been badly scarred twice. This may be an area of difficulty for her for some time."

Every muscle he could feel cringed uncomfortably. Was he really having this conversation with his mother?

"I would never force my attentions on her," he insisted. "No matter how limited they may be. Surely you know that."

"Yes," she returned. "I do. Just take things slowly, my dear boy. And listen carefully to what she doesn't say. So much of Mary must be translated in silence."

The truth of her observation struck hard. If only he had listened to what she had been hesitant to speak after bodies were spent. If he had pushed aside battered pride and heard masked agony, had considered her pain of more importance than his ingrained expectations. How different would their lives now be?

"Well, I'll leave you for now," Isobel stated, leaning down to kiss him on the cheek. "You're a very handsome groom."

"Thank you, mother," he replied, smiling up at her. "For everything. And especially for finding Mary and Christopher." He swallowed with difficulty as bare emotion welled up in his chest. "You know, he's only been a part of my life for a few days, but I cannot even fathom life without him." Her sniff was muffled, yet it somehow filled the room.

"I'm just glad I was able to help," she responded, her face brimming with mixed emotions. "Now make the most of this opportunity, my darling boy. Don't let that chair stop you from being the husband and father your family needs you to be."

And with that, he was left alone.

* * *

 

The church was cold and quiet, every step towards the altar echoing in a blatant mockery of its empty pews. Her hands trembled even as her palms continued to dampen, her throat so dry she feared her vows would be inaudible. _Just breathe_ , she instructed herself, approaching her fate unsteadily with more questions than answers.

She stared at his back sitting straight in his chair, remembering how it felt beneath her palms, moistened by a sheen of sweat, recalling its bare rejection of her when he left her in that bed. No. Such thoughts had no place here and now. This was her wedding day. He then turned his chair in her direction, giving her a smile she had not expected, making her feel light and heavy at the same time. It was the smile she remembered when he walked into the concert, when her heart had stilled at the knowledge that he lived. God—she didn't know how to feel anymore. She sensed her father's hesitant stare, knowing this day was nearly as difficult for him as it was for her and Matthew. Disappointed hopes and shattered expectations had led to an emotional retreat, one from which the earl had just begun to emerge when he had first seen her today.

_You look lovely, Mary._

She had nearly faltered at this show of tenderness, forcing herself to swallow back tears when he drew her in for an embrace. His smell was a comfort, reminding her of when he had been indestructible in her eyes, an unacknowledged hero for whom she had wished she had been born male. Now she had a son whose rightful claim to Downton might never be acknowledged. The twisted irony of her life nearly buckled her knees.

Her mother caught her eye, holding Christopher close with a nod of affirmation. So many details had been seen to by Cora, her support of Mary's need to have her child at the ceremony the swaying factor in garnering her father's approval. The only people in attendance not members of the family were Anna, Bates and Carson. Keeping the baby hidden would serve no purpose today.

Anna had taken such care with her hair, and Mary had stared at herself in a wordless fog, seeing the girl she had been dancing with the woman she had become. Silken fabric sliding against her skin was a luxury she had all but forgotten, and she basked in its texture though it did little to warm cool skin. Was Matthew cold as well, she wondered. She supposed she would soon find out.

Her vision tunneled, blotting out shards of the past and fear of the future. Breath quickened in time with her pulse, and her hands shook rebelliously as she forced herself to look into eyes that saw nothing but her. Could he see the dots of perspiration forming above her lip, betraying her nerves as they taunted chilled fingers and toes? Did he sense the longing of arms unaccustomed to being empty for such stretches of time? They had arrived at the altar. She could hear nothing but her pulse. Words spoken filtered through a haze impossible to shake, and it struck her that she couldn't feel her feet. She kept her gaze forward, responding as directed, processing less than she should.

Vows spilled from her lips automatically, and she welcomed the numbness protecting her heart from emotions that could split it asunder. Then she felt it, the stroke of a finger, the warmth of his hand, the first crack in a dam that could not falter.

Not here. Not now. Oh, God, Matthew.

He could still get to her too quickly, could still touch places forbidden, could still render her all but defenseless just by being who he was. His goodness was a torment, forbidding an indifference she needed to survive the next few minutes, the following hours, the upcoming night. If she allowed him a footing, he would overtake her like the incoming tide, leaving her breathless and drowning yet again without the strength to tread water. She couldn't live like that again. Once had left her heart hemorrhaging and had rendered memory a torment.

Pieces of her life still dangled haphazardly, refusing to conform to places they should fit with familiarity. For now, there had to be distance. For now, she could not let him see parts of her still patched and inflamed, too vulnerable for his inspection, too treacherous for her own peace of mind. His eyes found hers again, brimming with sentiment she was not ready to hear. Then hands were bound, their union declared. Was the ceremony over already?

Quiet instructions prodded her onward, and she leaned down to kiss him, seeing hot mortification stain his cheeks at the fact that he could not stand to seal their marriage properly. His struggle made her wince.

Oh, Matthew. Oh, Matthew.

Lips brushed with a lightness that took her breath and rendered her legs unsteady. Her stomach cinched at her body's reaction as fear and longing struggled with guilt for dominance. Why was it his kisses never remained on the surface? What right did they have to push in as they did? How in God's name was she supposed to deny entrance to the one person she had freely given a key? The same person she had just taken as her husband.

They were married. She was his wife. Oh, God, what had they done?

There was no going back, she knew that well, but moving forward…moving forward… Her face felt clammy as her head swayed forward. An odd moisture coated her mouth, as her body felt heavy and her feet started to float. Blackness began to dot her vision, and she realized with an odd sort of detachment that she was going to faint.

"Matthew."

His name slid from her throat as his face stared back in shock, and he helplessly watched in horror as her body slid to the floor.


	12. Chapter 12

"Matthew."

It all played out in front of him as an unexpected plot twist, a sickening farce mocking the very moment of their union. The unnatural shade of green that tinted her complexion, the sheen of perspiration dotting her upper lip, the moment her eyes lolled back into their sockets, the desperation with which she rasped his name just before her body went limp and crumpled to the floor.

"Mary!" His voice carried throughout the church with the power his arms had lacked. God, he felt useless as he stretched out to grasp her, quickly shoved back by her father who gathered her into his arms and held her to his chest. "Is she alright, Robert?" he asked in desperation, pushing his chair forward through the crowd that had gathered within seconds. "Please. Let me see her." He watched it all in a fog, voices echoing in his head as he was finally able to glimpse her form. God—how pale she looked.

"Here's some water," he heard his mother state as she knelt beside Robert and cradled his wife's face. "Mary. Mary, dear. Can you hear me?" Her eyes fluttered, and she inhaled with a sharp gasp, attempting to sit up too quickly in a motion that made her groan.

"Here. Drink this," Isobel commanded, putting the glass to Mary's lips. "You're in need of fluids, my dear."

She grimaced as the water slid down her throat, holding the glass with trembling fingers as she began to take in her surroundings.

"What happened?" Her eyes sought and found his, rounding in horror as her memory began to fill in the blanks.

"You fainted," he answered, his voice clearing a path for him to move as close to her as he was able.

"It's no wonder with all she's had to endure." The observation slid from Cora's lips with the smooth bite of whiskey, landing on him with the force of a slap.

"I'm alright." Mary's tone argued with her assertion, but she stubbornly heaved herself to her feet, her father's arms about her firmly lest she swoon again.

"I think you should lie down," Cora insisted, moving to Mary's other arm, effectively blocking his view.

"No, really," Mary returned. "The water is helping." Her legs chose that moment to wobble precariously, and Robert hastily led her to a pew, easing her down onto its support.

"Did you eat breakfast," Isobel inquired, Mary's expression revealing her negligence in this area before she opened her mouth.

"I couldn't," she admitted, dropping her eyes just after they brushed past his. "I thought that was fairly common on one's wedding day." Isobel moved to sit beside her, clasping her hand.

"It is," she began. "But not every bride is a nursing mother." Something akin to a bark of laughter emerged from Edith, pushing a primal anger up from his gut that made him shake.

"For God's sake, show her some respect!" All eyes focused squarely upon him as if he had just emerged out of thin air. "We are both well aware that this marriage did not taking place under the most ideal of circumstances," he continued, spurred on by rage. "If anyone else has a snide remark they feel the need to voice, do it now and get it over with. Otherwise hold your tongue unless you have something of value to offer." The hush that followed his outburst allowed him to steer himself closer, and he haltingly took her hand within his, gazing into eyes that watched him with the wariness of a cornered doe. "Are you alright, Mary?" he questioned. "Truly? Should I send for Dr. Clarkson?"

"There's no need for that," she insisted, her shoulders relaxing slightly. "I'm perfectly well." He tossed her an expression of disbelief.

"Why don't we stop at mother's on our way to Downton?" he proposed quietly. "You can eat something there and rest for a bit." Temptation clouded her features, her hesitation in answering more revealing than she realized.

"We can't," she argued, looking to her mother for confirmation. "Everyone will be forced to wait upon our arrival."

"And we shall survive," Violet put in firmly, making her way to the front of the gathering. "Matthew is right. You need to take care of yourself and your son at the moment, Mary. The cake will keep without too much difficulty." He smiled at the Dowager, bolstered by this unexpected show of support.

"You mustn't allow yourself to get run down attempting to satisfy other people's expectations," he continued. "And if anyone dares to complain, we can tell them that I was the one who caused the delay. No one will have any difficulty believing that." The edges of a smile formed at the corners of her lips, her eyes brimming with an appreciation that rippled across his skin.

"Alright," she consented, taking another sip of water. "Where is Christopher?" Sheer need shone from her expression, her gaze seeking out her son.

"He's right here, my lady." Anna carried the child directly to Mary, smiling down as she transferred the boy into arms craving his weight. A serenity settled upon her, wrapping the pair of them in a cloak of beauty so powerful it nearly robbed Matthew of breath. They were just there, within arm's length. His wife. His son. His family. "He's such a good baby," Anna observed with a smile, drawing Matthew back into his surroundings.

"Thank you, Anna," Mary stated, kissing Christopher's forehead and breathing him in. The baby nuzzled close to her breast, the child's awareness of his mother sparking a fierce surge of pride in Matthew. They were now his life—his mission, no matter what hand the war had dealt him, no matter his physical limitations. No matter what the future held. God help him face whatever came at them. God help him be an adequate father. God help him be the husband Mary deserved.

* * *

 

She sat in her bedchamber—her old bedchamber—staring into a mirror all too familiar, seeing a woman gaze back at her she barely knew. Her life had been altered irrevocably in this very room the night Kemal Pamuk slid through her door. These walls had seen her pray for Matthew's safe return and weep over his rejection. Her decision to bear her child in secret had been made here, and she stared at her bed, remembering how little comfort its warmth had rendered as she had stroked the small swell of her stomach, memorizing details of a life she had chosen to forfeit. Matthew had been in the trenches, his child growing in her womb. How bleak her future had seemed that night.

How much brighter did it seem now?

Yes, her child had his father, and Matthew was alive. She was no longer an unwed mother but the wife of a man she had loved most of her adult life. Yet she wasn't blind to the struggles they would face, forged in part from his physical disabilities compiled with years of emotional baggage and pain. Would they ever truly find their way back to each other? Would either of them truly be happy again?

The marriage luncheon had been horribly uncomfortable, the few who attended attempting small talk that swam around her like a fog. She knew the recuperating soldiers stared and whispered, that servants spoke freely behind closed doors, that her life was now fodder for gossip and derision. Toasts were made, the cake was served, and all she could think about was how badly she wanted to flee back to Crawley House, back to Cumberland, back to the safety of walls within which she faced no judgment. She now craved the solitude that had nearly suffocated her. She needed space in which to breathe, to lay down all pretense, to simply be herself.

Not Lady Mary Crawley, the young woman who partook of life with an aloof naivety she could never regain, the girl who did the season, the one who wore intelligence as armor and wielded wit as a weapon. That life meant nothing to her now, shimmering as a phantom mist just beyond her current reality. No…she was now Mary the mother, the realist, the walking wounded--the survivor. She didn't want to be here, trapped within the confines of her past life. She needed what was real and tangible. She wanted her son.

Christopher had nursed just minutes earlier, his warm, sated form the most calming presence in her muddled mess of a life. How strong the desire had been to curl up in bed with him at her breast, he—an infant who could neither stand or speak now her most treasured companion. She smiled at the irony of it. Had it truly only been weeks ago she had doubted her ability to love her own child? The room felt empty now that he was comfortably settled in the nursery, and she was half-tempted to drag his crib down the hallway to her bedside. She sighed into the space, stroking hair Anna had expertly plaited. How odd to feel like a stranger in her own home, the prodigal daughter welcomed back without fanfare, accepted simply because of who she was. How surreal to be waiting for her husband on her wedding night, knowing he couldn't consummate a marriage forged from the aftermath of a deed already done. What did he expect of her? Would they talk? Discuss the future? Was he planning on asking for liberties she couldn't bring herself to grant?

Would he even come to her at all?

A knock on her door answered that question as it made her jump. Her pulse raced, and she swallowed down her nerves, reminding herself that this was Matthew, that he would not push her to do anything she didn't want to do. Of course, doing more than they should have had landed them into this mess of a marriage in the first place. Dear, God, he was her husband now. He had already seen and touched all of her. It was time to get over this foolishness and face whatever the night held.

"Come in."

The door nudged open, and he wheeled himself in slowly, his robe fastened over his pajamas, his face dreadfully unsure.

"Are you certain?" His question startled her, and she stood from her perch, tugging at the strings of her own dressing gown as her eyes roamed the room's perimeter.

"Whatever do you mean?" Her nineteen year old self emerged in the blink of an eye, and she reproached herself for her ridiculous question as he moved towards her slowly.

"Are you certain it's alright for me to be here?" he clarified, examining her reaction. "I know how awkward things are between us right now, and the very last thing I want to do is to cause you any further discomfort. I've hurt you enough as it is."

She exhaled audibly, seeing a fleeting glimpse of her Perseus, making her long for the frivolity and conversation of days long gone.

"It's our wedding night," she observed, swallowing hard. "Where else would you be?"

"In my own room alone, if that will give you any peace of mind." She moved towards the bed, sitting on its edge as she granted him an attempt at a smile. "Mary, this is the beginning of our marriage. It is more important to me that we try to rebuild something substantial than it is to pretend that this is a normal wedding night when we both know it is anything but." She pressed her lips together, closing her eyes as emotions too strong surged close to the surface. "I can't be a proper husband to you, and I doubt very seriously that you have any desire to be intimate with me in any form or fashion."

Her chest collapsed, and he remembered the day he first walked away from her, when he had withdrawn his proposal, when she had been trying to make him understand what eventually ripped her asunder. If he had stayed, where would they now be? If he had been patient enough to hear her out, would he even be in this blasted chair?

"I don't know what to do, Matthew." Her honesty struck him hard, and he wheeled closer, wishing again he could call back his ghastly reaction that fateful afternoon nearly a year ago. "I know we're doing the best that we can, and I know we're both sorry for our past mistakes." She paused, looking straight into him, her eyes filled with trepidation. "But I don't know how to move forward," she whispered. "And I don't know that I'm strong enough to figure it out."

He gently clasped her hands within his, gauging her reaction, giving her the chance to withdraw from his touch. She didn't.

"You don't have to be strong enough, Mary. We'll figure it out together. One day at a time."

"We're not exactly good at finding our way together, Matthew," she argued, looking down at their hands. "We always seem to end up pushing each other away rather than working through difficulties." His gut cinched at the truth of her observation.

"But now we have Christopher," he stated, knowing their child couldn't remove all of the hurdles erected by their own hands. "He has brought us together in a way nothing else could." Her silence was soothing somehow, and her face lit up at the mention of her son.

"You're good with him," she offered, feeling the first shreds of warmth at the smile her comment instigated. "But we can't use him to cover our scars."

"No," he agreed softly. "But perhaps he can help us to heal." He felt the shudder ripple through her body, sensed the breath that caught in her chest.

"Do you really think we can? Heal, that is?" His direct gaze struck something she couldn't quite identify.

"I have to," he whispered, the slight tremble of his chin making her heart ache. "I can't allow myself to think otherwise." His eyes filled with tears he wished he could contain. But they fell freely, carving trails now well-watered down the planes of his cheek, cleansing what still needed redemption, purifying the wretchedness harbored in his soul. Her touch startled him, and he was mesmerized by the sensation of unsteady fingers softly wiping away his grief, consumed by her in a new way that left him breathless. He felt it and saw that she did, too, something new, something delicate, the first shoots of new growth in a relationship that had nearly destroyed itself.

"You're right, of course," she offered, stroking his cheek with her thumb. "We have to start somewhere."

His eyes made her weak. Her touch gave him everything.

"Tell me about Christopher."

She sat up taller, eyeing him in surprise. "What do you mean?'

"About everything I missed," he expounded, watching her face crease in guilt. "Your pregnancy, his birth, the moment you first held him." It was she who now fought back tears, and she folded her hands together carefully.

"There's not much to say about my pregnancy," she admitted, looking down at her lap. "I was numb for a good portion of it, and angry for the other." She saw his face fall at her words, but he forced himself to meet her eyes, nodding his head. "And I was huge," she added, lightened by his grin that followed her comment.

"I cannot imagine you being anything but slender," he mused, actually chuckling at the roll of her eyes.

"Those final weeks I had difficulty getting out of bed on my own," she admitted. "And attempting to bathe was a bit of a nightmare. The last stages of pregnancy are not exactly comfortable, you know."

"I'm beginning to see that," he replied, relishing the hints of a glow on her cheeks. "Were there certain foods you craved madly?" She quirked an expression he couldn't quite read but adored anyway.

"Everything I couldn't have," she returned. "Fresh strawberries, even when they were out of season. I could have eaten salmon mousse on a daily basis. And I missed Mrs. Patmore's chocolate tart more than I can tell you." Lines of tension had melted into an almost girlish grin, and he could just imagine her under their tree, smiling up at him in a manner that first taught him to hope.

"It looks as if she made you a tray," he observed, looking over her shoulder at a small feast on a portable table, a bottle of champagne chilling beside it. "And I'm certain I spy some chocolate among its contents."

"As if I haven't eaten enough today," she quipped, watching his expression become earnest.

"You haven't. I've been paying attention." She'd been caught, and she knew it.

"I haven't had much of an appetite," she confessed, worrying her admission would unleash renewed tension that had just been swept under the rug.

"Neither have I." Only compassion stared back at her, brushed with strokes of understanding and a hints of the man to whom she had given everything. She swallowed with effort. "Perhaps we should enjoy Mrs. Patmore's creations," he suggested with a small shrug. "It seems a shame that such delights should go to waste."

"Subtlety was never your strong suit," she observed, raising her brow at him just so.

"And it never will be," he returned. "Shall I maneuver myself over there and fetch the tray?"

"I'll get it," she stated, nearly stopping his heart as she stood. The flurry of her delicate nightgown, the shimmer of her robe, the sway of dark, plaited hair that made him ache to unbind it… God, his wife was glorious. She felt his gaze follow each step, a shiver crawling up her legs as she wondered if he remembered things hidden marked by him. His details were burned into her memory—the taste of his mouth, the texture of his skin, the pulsing heat of him inside her, making her writhe in passion until— Oh, God, until…

"Are you alright, Mary?" How long she had been frozen, she could not say. But there she stood, just by the tray, staring at closed drapes, captured yet again by that moment that had imprisoned her for months on end.

"Yes," she lied, knowing he would notice the trembling of her hands as she bore the food back to the bed. "I'm fine."

"No, you're not." His observation broke her, and her insides began to spill over crumbling walls. A tear broke free, a solitary lament she could fight down no longer.

"Would you like me to leave?"

Everything inside of her was shaking. Years of hurt and want, of light and loss, of biting confusion and sharp clarity descended upon her at once, flooding reservoirs, cracking dams, pushing into her with an insistence beyond her control.

"No," she whispered, needing him in a manner that terrified her. "Don't leave me."

He felt more than heard her plea, the force of its impact nearly knocking the air from his lungs.

"I won't," he promised, his words singeing every nerve he could feel. "I won't leave you again, Mary." She was trembling and sobbing, and he could stand it no longer. Arms enveloped her, held her, bound her to him with an intimacy stronger than he had felt when he had kissed her breasts. "I'm sorry," he breathed into her neck, crying with her, wishing he could stand and carry her to their bed. "So very, very sorry."

Her fingers latched onto his robe, grasping on to all that was left to her besides their son. He was her husband, this man who had wished her the best as he went off to war, who had kissed her at the train station and returned to the front, who had claimed and rejected her as he gave her his child. He was Matthew. Her husband. Christopher's father. And she could not let him go.

"Oh, God, Mary."

Her name made him feel where it was impossible, shared tears baptizing him into a new life he would face from a chair. But for her, he would try, he would be—something, anything she needed. He held her with the same ferocity with which she clung to him, her embrace keeping him afloat even while he drowned in the essence of her. They held on until last tears were spent, both sensing a loss as they drew apart.

"Do you still feel like eating?"

He nearly laughed at her question, wiping his eyes as he grinned back at her foolishly.

"No," he sighed. "But you need to, Mary. Don't make me force-feed you on our wedding night." She regarded him in silence, finally making an appreciative sound.

"Funnily enough, I'm starving."

"Good," he returned. "No get to it." She did so without argument, and they both drank the champagne. He couldn't resist when she offered him a bite of chocolate from her fork, amazed at the intimacy of this small gesture, sensing her eyes on him as he savored its flavor.

"Shall I send for Bates?"

The question rushed from her as she stood on unsteady legs, emotions she couldn't yet face hitting her from all sides, making her question her own sanity, making her want to hold him again. She hurt too much to hope, but there it was, pushing up from nowhere, sneaking through barriers she still needed to survive. Her defenses were reduced to putty whenever he was near. They always had been, they always would be. Her heart trembled at this certainty, knowing how vulnerable this left her, fearing her future as it gazed at her with utmost tenderness.

"No, I'll go. He'll be waiting for my instructions."

She nodded and walked to the bed, untying her robe with unsteady hands before allowing it to slide from her shoulders. She was utterly exposed to him yet again, the delicate fabric of her nightgown seemingly nonexistent, raw emotions pulled to the surface—the aftermath of years of crushed hopes. He turned away as more of her was revealed, not wanting to make her uneasy about sharing her bed. Yet dusky nipples lived in his memory, the taste of marble skin absorbed into his tongue, the feel of her surrounding him so miraculous he questioned its reality. It hurt like hell that he could never love her like that again, that he could never make up for his stupidity and anger with every part of his being, that he could never physically show her what a marvel she truly was. How he longed to make love to his wife—all of his wife. Every broken fragment, every scrap of armor, every freckle, every crevice, every breath. He heard her slide under the bed clothes and rapped on the door, knowing Bates would enter and assist him into bed. He hated the thought of her seeing him so dependent, but this was her life now, the wife of a man who couldn't use his legs. Eyes shut against that reality, attempting to press it away for a few stolen hours of wholeness, focusing on the remnants of chocolate on his tongue. But the door opened, and Bates emerged, maneuvering useless limbs into the bed beside her, picking up the tray and exiting with the discretion of a ghost.

They were alone in her bed.

He bit back the bitterness that would do nothing but cripple them both, refusing to descend into the hole of self-pity, focusing on the reality of her.

"Thank you." Neither looked at the other, eyes dancing around walls and furniture until those words slid from his mouth.

"For what?"

"For this," he whispered, patting the bed. "For Christopher, for everything." She stared again at her hands, making a decision before looking back to him.

"I thought I was dying," she breathed, her fingers resting where their son once grew. "When I was giving birth to him." He held his breath as she opened this door, giving him a glimpse into her life without him. "It hurt like hell, Matthew," she confessed. "Like I was being ripped open from top to bottom." The clock ticked in the gap, and she licked her lips before her eyes again found his. "I prayed for a daughter," she admitted, her voice rasping as it pushed up from the depths. "I never wanted a son, never wanted this child, and I cursed you over and over when he began to come out." Tears welled yet again, and his arm began to shake, steadied by her hand as her gaze refocused on the ceiling. "But then I saw you dying, lying wounded in my mind, and I screamed. I screamed so hard, I wondered if you could hear me. I couldn't bear to think of you that way. I couldn't stand to think I'd lost you forever. I couldn't live like that."

It all gushed out of her, wave after wave, the clashing fronts of their pasts swirling into a tsunami of painful truth.

"When I heard him cry, something changed." He could barely hear or see her, his eyes so full, his heart lying in pieces. "They told me I had a son, and I knew it was right. The moment they placed him in my arms, I couldn't breathe, I couldn't think, I just felt so much, everything I had tried to bury and new things I couldn't explain." He heard her swallow, felt her tremble, knowing he had never seen her any more naked than she was at this moment. "I loved him, then, and he changed me. My life had a focus, and I knew I had to survive, that we had to survive. I knew I would do whatever it took to give him what he needed. I knew he was everything to me."

Then she was done, spent from all she had shared, freshly scrubbed and tingling, raw and tender. She shut her eyes as her past merged with her present, feeling the man she had cursed shaking under her hand, bruised and crippled, but very much alive.

"You're amazing, Mary." His words ran everywhere at once, skimming over pores wide open, claiming her as his wife in a way she never imagined.

"No," she argued.

"Yes. You are." His tone was shattered but steady, and he gripped her hand as they stared at each other anew. "Forgive me," he pleaded softly, so much still unspoken riding on his words.

"I am," she admitted, her voice barely audible, enveloping him in something so powerful it nearly blindsided him.

Then there was nothing more to say.

Their hands remained joined until she turned off the light, the waxing darkness somehow changed by what had been shared. Neither slept at first until exhaustion tugged at their edges, claiming them both into a realm where hurt vanished and all was right until their eyes would open to the world around them yet again. 


	13. Chapter 13

It still felt odd, waking up beside another person, feeling human warmth brush against her skin with a detached familiarity, sensing the rise and fall of another chest lagging just behind her own pulse. Sometimes his arm would be draped about her waist, at others his nose would nearly be touching her own, but usually they each kept to their sides of the bed, sleeping as they lived, together yet separate, married in name but not in flesh.

His scent seemed out of place in her bedroom, somewhat medicinal yet masculine, clean and sharp, so different than the gentle aroma of powder and new life that clung to his child who lay sleeping in the room next to hers. Theirs, she corrected herself. This was _their_ bed. Their room. Their marriage.

Their life.

She slept fitfully these days, still adjusting to the extra presence beside her, still noticing every twitch, every snore, every catch of breath as her subconscious mind remained on alert for the cries of her son. Fatigue made adjusting to marriage more difficult, and she knew Matthew felt it, too. She would catch him awake when she would rise to tend to Christopher, would instruct him to sleep, would remind him of how much he needed his rest when her own body was crying out for that very thing with an acuteness she couldn't bring herself to verbalize. Rest dangled mockingly just beyond her grasp, pushing her ever closer to a precipice she feared and fought with every iota of determination she could muster. She couldn't afford to crack now, not while their life together was even younger than their child, while egg-shells were strewn across their path, daring them to tread across them and deal with whatever mess ensued. No, things had to remain calm for the time being, even if it felt as though they played out a daily masquerade, adjusting to life with both a new nurse and a part-time nanny in a location that held memories both bitter and precious to her while being utterly foreign to him.

"And this is where you lived?" he had asked upon entering the Cumberland house for the first time. "Practically alone for all those months?" The floor beneath her feet had groaned in time with his inquiry.

"Yes," she had answered, staring at walls that had both sheltered and imprisoned. "This is our home. Mine and Christopher's."

His head had dropped to his chest, and she knew she had wounded him as she often did these days. Yet he continually instructed her to be truthful with him, to not hold back raw honesty in any sort of attempt to placate or protect. There were times she wanted to hurt him, needed to see him experience a measure of the pain she had carried, longed for him to realize just what damage his rejection had inflicted upon the marrow of her soul.

"Your home, too, now," she amended softly, feeling a catch in her ribs she pushed aside. "I hope you feel comfortable here." Gazes met and locked, and for a moment she couldn't breathe.

"I hope you do, as well."

His voice stroked her insides, feeling like crushed velvet brushing across chaffed skin. God—his eyes—the remorse, the shame, the need for redemption that filled them to the cusp always struck her to her depths, and she had fought the urge to gather him in her arms and soothe him as she would Christopher. But he was her husband, the lover who had filled her womb with his seed, the soldier who had left her cold and naked, the man who now sought her forgiveness and love with a humility that left her knees weak. He was Matthew. Always her Matthew, even if she feared the thought of again becoming his Mary.

No, she couldn't afford that measure of abandon anymore, an absolute reliance upon arms that had released her to harsh elements after learning her secrets and stroking her nakedness. That depth of trust had maimed her more than she could admit to anyone, filling private confessions voiced to night skies and cold sheets that harbored neither judgment nor reconciliation. But her sheets were no longer cold, not with his skin under their fabric, his breath warming their fibers, his heart pumping life into the room around her. Her bed was now warm, almost too warm for her own comfort, so odd and disconcerting, bearing the lethal allure of trust and companionship, humming the possibilities of hope and love in a throaty ostinato she tried to push from her mind.

She couldn't let herself fall in love with Matthew. Not again.

Oh, she loved him, she would always love him. It was senseless to even attempt to deny that fact to anyone, especially herself. His soul had imprinted it's thumbprint on every cell in her body before his child had quietly taken root, binding broken shards of what could have been into a life that truly should not exist. But he did exist, soft and vibrant, pink and plump. She couldn't fathom her life without Christopher, her child born in solitude, her baby hidden away. Thank God for her small miracle society mistakenly labeled a curse.

Society knew nothing.

Then a stretch beside her, and she watched his face grimace as blue eyes flickered open. It happened every morning, the moment when he remembered, the fractured instant when dreams of legs that worked faded into the cold reality of their bedroom.

"Good morning." His voice was weighted and slurred, still heavy with remnants of sleep tinged with disappointment.

"Good morning," she returned, turning to look at him. "Did you sleep well?" Some mornings she did not ask, those when his eyes remained clouded and his countenance pale.

"Fairly well," he answered, giving her a groggy smile. "No nightmares last night. That's always a bonus."

He had awakened her three times since their marriage thrashing about helplessly in a sweat, calling out names she didn't know, crying for William, for his mother, for her. Once he had screamed Lavinia's name, and her blood had pooled in her gut, leaving limbs numb and frigid and her throat parched. She had never told him of that moment and knew that she never would. Some things in a marriage were better left hidden and unvoiced.

"I'm glad," she observed as her gaze traveled across his. "I can't fathom what it's like to be forced to relive such horrors." For a moment, she didn't know him, crystal eyes flickering into something distant and hard, seeing a world beyond her reckoning, smelling smoke and carnage she could only imagine.

"You cried out last night," he stated, lines tightening around his lips. "Something was distressing you badly. Something to do with me."

His voice broke into his final sentence, morning's clarity settling in hard on a husband she both wanted and feared. Her mind reeled backwards into the fog of lost dreams, catching blurred remnants of their cabin, of her trudging naked through a blizzard, searching for him, crying out for him, needing him to cover her, realizing too late she was hopelessly lost and cold.

"Did I?" She forced her voice into steadiness, focused her sight onto what was tangible. "I don't remember."

"Oh," he returned, his voice barely audible. "I see." The fact he did not believe her was apparent, but he did not press, a gesture for which she was both thankful and disappointed. "Christopher is still asleep?" he questioned half-heartedly. "It's rather late for him, isn't it?"

"A bit," she admitted. "But he's been sleeping for longer stretches recently as he has been putting on weight. Your mother told me that was a good sign."

"And a good thing for you, as well," he stated. "You're not sleeping enough, Mary, and you work tirelessly throughout the day. I worry about you." She sighed into the air above her.

"There's no need to worry, Matthew," she insisted. "I'm perfectly well."

"You're wearing yourself out trying to take care of Christopher," he argued, staring into the wall before clearing his throat with a grimace. "And me." He shifted uncomfortably on his arms, grunting with the effort. "There's no need for you to overtax yourself in such a manner when I have a nurse and he a nanny." She knew the need for his own caregiver left a bitter taste in his mouth, much the same as the bile-like residue she experienced at seeing Christopher cared for by another woman.

"I'm his mother," she clarified, bristling at the mention of the efficient nanny her mother had both hired and placed on salary.

"No one denies that fact," Matthew whispered. "But Nanny Logan knows what she is doing."

"Christopher doesn't like her." She felt childish but refused to back down, detesting the thought of another woman helping to raise her son.

"Christopher is adjusting to her," Matthew reasoned. "Give him time. You've been his primary caregiver his entire life. Of course he requires a period of transition."

"Why does he even need a nanny? Am I not an adequate mother?" Hot tears pressed against her lids, and she fought them back in a mild panic, unwilling to break in front of him yet again.

"You are an amazing mother," he retorted, reaching out to touch her hand. The contact awakened every nerve ending she possessed, and she jumped under his fingertips, hating the pain that creased his brow at her reaction. "I'm sorry," he breathed, cutting her insides by withdrawing his hand as he pulled back into himself.

"Don't be," she muttered, feeling as if her entire life were balanced upon shifting quicksand. "I'm just…" Her thought shattered into fragments, her throat constricting at buried emotions battling for air.

"You're just human, Mary," he voiced for her. "And you're now married to the man who nearly ruined your life." She wished she could dispute his assertion, but the words were trapped, bound by the knowledge that what he stated was true.

"You're also the man who gave me a son," she whispered, her eyes falling to bed sheets twisted into her fists. "We did this together, Matthew." His chuckle bore no mirth as he slid deeper back into the covers.

"We did," he agreed. "But you didn't desert me." She felt the sensation of ice pellets striking her skin as they had in her dream, wondering how her toes could feel so incredibly cold when still completely enfolded in warmth.

"No," she returned. "But I did keep you from your child." It was something he never brought up, and she wondered how he could so easily glide past such a chasm in their relationship.

"You were protecting yourself and our baby," he argued, even as an edge crept into his voice.

"But I never gave you the opportunity to do the right thing," she pushed back. "If I had told you…"

"Stop it, Mary." His tone bordered on harsh, and she noticed the tremor that had returned to his hand. "I'm sorry," he whispered raggedly, hanging his head. "Forgive me? Please?"

She nodded, sensing more hovering just beneath the surface than either of them possessed the strength to handle. Mines buried in haste now threatened three lives already balanced precariously on a ledge. Perhaps it was time to pull back.

"I'm sorry, too."

That lop-sided smile that always struck its target did so again, and she felt a line of defense disintegrate as ash into her palm.

"You don't need to be," he stated gently. "But you do need to rest." Her eyes refused to look away from his, and he drew her in closer with the promise of something she craved with the ferocity of air. "You cannot do everything for everyone in this household and keep a hold of your sanity and heath, Mary. Don't burden yourself with such unrealistic expectations." The deftness with which he steered them to safer ground soothed her, and her bones relaxed somewhat back into the mattress. "No one expects you to do so, and I am not willing to watch you make yourself ill on my account when it is completely unnecessary. Let Nanny Logan do her job."

His words stung as they bored into her consciousness, logic warring with emotion just under her skin.

"But a nanny," she insisted, looking into eyes that saw too much. "Allowing her to care for him feels as if I'm abandoning my own child. I don't want Christopher to think I don't love him."

She then nearly laughed at the irony of her words, knowing if her son had been born under ideal circumstances, she would have relied tremendously upon a nanny, would have expected the woman to tend to Christopher's every need, her personal time and interaction with her own child drastically reduced to little more than daily exposure and perfunctory kisses. It was how things were done among her kind of people. Dear God—how much she would have missed had he been born legitimate. Gentle yawns that overtook soft cheeks and comically crinkled his nose, his particular method of burrowing into her breast after latching on to her nipple and touching her skin with tiny fists, the sensation of life passing from her body to his, a tug and release she treasured more than anything she had ever before experienced. What were balls and galas compared to this? How could seasons and fittings ever compare to the rhythm of life as reflected in the dark eyes of her son?

"She'll never be to him what you are. You needn't worry yourself over that." His words were gentle, his tone pure and clear. "But he seems to be taking to her well, and that's good for all of us, I think. Don't you, Mary?" Her spine stiffened in response.

"She doesn't know how he likes to be held and rocked," Mary insisted, feeling something being tugged out of her grasp. "How to cradle his head, how to stroke his back, how rubbing the top of his forehead helps soothe him when he's distressed."

"She's learning," Matthew sighed. "We're all learning, Mary." He paused, running fingers through his hair, clearly weighing his words. "This life is an adjustment for all of us. You especially, I daresay." Her spine bristled, needing to lash out, seeking a release with a fire that singed bone and nerve, finding him all too convenient a target.

"You have no idea, Matthew," she insisted, her voice quavering in her larynx. "None. I know this is all a change for you, a huge change for you, and I despise the fact that you're having to adjust to a life you would have never chosen. But sometimes I feel as if this house and everyone in it are beginning to press in on me." Silence hung between them for an uncomfortable moment.

"Just as the chair presses in on me," he finally added, his lips moving over the words even after they had been released. Her muscles cramped painfully at his confession.

"I'm sorry," she whispered, leaning closer towards him. "It's just that I'm not used to—" She stopped herself mid-sentence, trembling internally at the weighted knowledge washing over her.

"You're not used to what?" She stared back at him reluctantly before closing her eyes and shaking her head.

"To sharing him," she whispered. "To sharing Christopher." Her body shook at the admission then squeezed back into itself, her arms now bereft with the need to hold her baby. He surprised her by offering her a smile, one both genuine and tender that creased the lines of his eyes.

"Why would you be?" he questioned. A puff of air flew out her nostrils. "At first, it was just the two of you, while he grew in your body, when you gave birth to him." His face contorted as it always did at the knowledge that she had endured labor and delivery with only strangers in attendance. "Until mother joined you, that is."

Her heart squeezed at the mention of Isobel, the one person from Downton she wished could have stayed, even as she knew living with both her mother-in-law and her husband would most likely prove to be restrictive.

"Even at Downton, he was primarily with you or one of his grandmothers," he continued as a soft translucence overtook his countenance. "Now you're surrounded by two new caregivers and sharing a bed with a husband you had little choice but to wed." He paused, looking at her with something that made her ribs tingle. "We're all basically intruders in your life, Mary. It's only natural that you would begin to feel claustrophobic." Something gave inside her at the accuracy of his assessment.

"It's odd," she volunteered. "When I was pregnant with him, I would have given anything for company. The solitude was stifling." He nodded wordlessly.

"I do understand that," he muttered. "Even when I was surrounded by men and activity in the trenches, there were times I felt horribly alone. Especially at night." She caught her breath, unwilling to shatter any observance he shared with her from his life at the front. These confidences were few and far between, and she wondered if voicing them cut into his emotional fabric the way his desertion had shredded her own. "It was rarely quiet, you know," he continued, his gaze fixed on something beyond her perception. "But when it was, the stillness was absolute. And terrifying. Worse than the noise of gunfire or explosions." She swallowed stiffly, noting beads of sweat surfacing just above his lips. "It was at those moments, when it was so quiet and menacing that I felt it," he voiced, his tone simultaneously distant and intimate. "Loneliness so paralyzing I couldn't breathe."

How well she knew the sensation.

"One night I nearly broke my bedroom window," she offered. "I felt so alone, and my body was agitated." How often had her limbs felt the need to walk, to kick, to run for no logical reason while her child grew large in her womb? "I wanted to hit something, to break something so badly, and I pounded on the glass until my knuckles bled." Breaths mingled in shared sentiment above bodies reclined but alert. "No one could hear me," she concluded, feeling the weight of that moment once more. "And that terrified me."

His hand reached for hers again, cooler than it had been before, still shaking in the aftermath of the tremor. She laid hers atop his, hearing a hissed exhale escape his lips.

"That's when I would write to you." Oh, God. Her heart paused and then thudded into her head, her world spinning off-kilter as her body lay immobile. "When it was silent, when no one else could see. I would light a candle and sit in my corner." He paused, clearing his throat self-consciously. "And I would write everything I couldn't speak." His arm clenched under her touch, his face contorting at his body's rebellion as her stomach began to work itself into knots. "You were the person who kept me sane, Mary," he confessed raggedly. "I spoke to you so many times from that hell-hole, apologized over and over to you for my behavior, held you as close as I could with mere pen and parchment." He stopped to breathe and to gauge her reaction. "When mother's letter arrived informing me that you had gone to America, I actually considered desertion in favor of procuring direct passage to New York. I worked out scenario after scenario of how I would find you, what I would say, and I wrote it all down, deluding myself into believing that I would be given a second chance I didn't deserve."

His confession tickled her pores, instigating a skitter up vertebrae that made her shiver.

"As much as I detest this chair, as much as I crave a body that functions as a man's body should, there are moments I can't help but wonder." She stared at his features, feeling a connection to him she hadn't experienced since she had bared her body to his caress.

"What?" she whispered as his fingers curled around her own.

"If I'd have this." He squeezed her hand, and she let him without flinching. "If I'd be your husband," he continued. "If I'd even know my son." He swallowed with effort, fighting back tears with a determination radiating into her arm. "And if I had to choose between an existence with legs lived apart from you or the life I have now, I'd choose this, Mary. Chair and all, it wouldn't matter. I'd choose you and Christopher. Every time."

Her eyes filled within seconds, her mind and soul wrapped soundly in this admission that bound a wound with deep roots. Wetness marked her cheeks, and she let the tears come, feeling something wash clean she hadn't realized was stained. Her free hand moved to his cheek, even damper than her own, and one of her own tears dripped on to his face as hurt mingled with hurt in a moment of shared healing. Her lips then shook as they moved to his cheek, touching him haltingly, tasting the salt of his soul, absorbing his private confessions. He gripped her hand, her arm, her back, pulling her body flush with his, holding her to him even closer than when he had entered her flesh. His mouth feathered against her forehead, and a part of her was lost in this man who was a necessary to her life as the heart thudding painfully against her ribs.

"I don't deserve you, Mary," he spoke into her hair, caressing its silken texture, passing over where it had knotted in sleep. "But I don't think I could go on living without you." His words held her to him with gentle ties of worn linen.

"And I don't deserve Christopher," she replied, hearing her own voice resound against his chest. "But the mere thought of life without him…" She choked on what was left unsaid.

Fingers calloused from war lifted her chin towards his gaze, and they saw each other in a manner new to them both. Survivors, limping and scarred, existing with injuries inflicted upon them by others and by their own hands, but survivors nonetheless.

"Then perhaps this is better," he mused, his eyes still moist and full of so much. And for the first time since she had set eyes on him as the mother of his child, she believed every word that he uttered.


	14. Chapter 14

Sleet lashed against windows, keeping them indoors and he huddled near the fire's warmth. Dumas was failing to hold his attention, and he set the book aside in frustration, his thoughts continually wandering up the steps and to the nursery where the creak of a rocking chair could be heard over the crackling breath of winter. God—the glass was now nearly iced-over, the layers of beaded crystals creating the illusion of being enclosed in an Icelandic cocoon. If only they could simply relax by the roaring hearth, bundled in quilts, bedecked in warm slippers and soothed by tepid tea.

He and Mary had actually learned to sit somewhat easily together over the past few weeks, discussing household items, correspondence with the family, and the spectacle of a flock of lost sheep roaming about town that caused quite a disruption but a few days ago. They laughed over Christopher's newly-discovered smile, marveled at the rate of his growth, and speculated on when the child might actually sprout more hair to help cover his soft, downy dome.

Simple disagreements had become manageable, as well, each of them taking opposing sides over the possibility of increasing their interactions with neighbors. He believed it would be good for them to expand their list of acquaintances and to open their home to short visits and friendly calls. Mary did not. She much preferred that they keep to themselves, and he knew she still felt the burden of a perceived scarlet letter, one she sensed to be ever-present even if invisible to the human eye, one that weighted her step and forced her to work at squaring her shoulders and setting her jaw. She could not dismiss the need to hide from scrutiny, fiercely sheltering their son from the threat of hostile words and knowing glances, even though they enjoyed the freedom of relative anonymity here among strangers.

"It only takes one person to ruin everything," she had reminded him last night, sipping her wine slowly without meeting his eyes. That one person had been him, he thought silently yet again, hating that it was always the woman who bore the brunt of a two-sided act. How viciously hypocritical and unjust was the world in which they lived.

His child's muffled cry cut into his musings, making his stomach drop down to his shoes. Christopher was restless and had kept Mary awake most of the night, tugging on his ear relentlessly and prompting her to send for Dr. Meadows at the first hint of dawn. The physician's arrival had been delayed by the birth of twin daughters to a Mr. and Mrs. Lampton, both babies quite plump and healthy, the older man had reported with a smile, though their mother was quite spent from the process and their father somewhat overwrought by the fact that he now had five daughters under one roof. Matthew had smiled at the story, shaking his head at the mere thought of living with six females. But he silently envied Mr. Lampton, even if he would not allow himself to entertain the painful notion for long. The fact that the man had been able to father five children…

He cleared his throat, staring down at his useless legs and groin in disgust. How often had he lain awake, gazing at Mary as she slept, wanting to gather her in his arms and make love to her properly? The remembered texture of her breasts in his mouth did nothing but torment him to the point of pain, and he had worked himself into a sweat many a night imagining how it would feel to be buried inside her yet again, to love her thoroughly and completely, to attempt to make up for the damage he had done when she had bared herself to him in every way imaginable and he had walked away. He marveled again at his wife's strength and fortitude, finding everything she managed on a daily basis to be extraordinary.

Why women were considered to be the weaker and more delicate sex, he could not fathom. Mary's backbone had been forged from iron, her outsides sculpted from the finest marble bearing the texture of silk and fine linen, her splintered soul still stubbornly hewn together, all bound intricately with fibers of spun silver. God, he loved his wife. If only he could show her physically.

Was it possible to become aroused when that part of one's anatomy ceased to function? He couldn't help but wonder, feeling what could only be called overpowering lust two days ago as he watched her bend over to retrieve a fallen earring. He could have sworn he was bursting through his trousers, but of course there was no physical evidence to substantiate remembered sensations. He squeezed the handles of his wheelchair, his knuckles whitening under the pressure.

Damn the war. Damn his useless legs. Damn this bloody chair.

Dr. Meadow's diagnosis was a welcome distraction, and Christopher had been administered the first dosage of hydrogen peroxide drops to fight off the beginnings of an ear infection. The treatment seemed to soothe him for a short while as Mrs. Jacobs saw to feeding the good doctor in the kitchen. But the peace had been short-lived as the child soon spiked a slight fever, making his mother nearly frantic.

"Cool cloths, yes?" Matthew had reminded her, hating to see her so distressed, fighting back his own worry to settle hers. "Isn't that what mother always instructs for fever relief?"

"Yes," she had nodded absently, attempting to sooth her clearly distressed son as he clung inconsolably to her. "Of course. Do you agree Dr. Meadows?" The man had congenially followed Mary back to the nursery as Mrs. Jacobs eyed them both steadily, shaking her head as she gazed in Matthew's direction.

"At least Dr. Meadows has had something to eat," she stated firmly with a nod in his direction. "I'll get her a bowl of soup and take it up to the nursery to see if I can shove some down her throat. She's no good at taking care of herself, you know."

"Yes," he sighed, his voice laded with concern. "I know." He knew it all too well.

She had lost weight as the temperature had grown colder, and he was unsure how much of that was due to the demands on her body from nursing and how much could be laid at the feet of undue stress. He feared the latter to be the primary culprit. Damn it. She had no extra weight to lose.

"You need to eat more," he had told her repeatedly, only to receive a nod or a sigh of exasperation, depending on her mood and the time of day.

"I will later," she would always assure him, both of them perfectly aware of the fact that she was lying. The rocking continued, and he mentally journeyed up the stairs to her side, feeling the give of creaking wood under his instep, the remembered pressure on the knees of climbing steps at his home in Manchester, his left leg twitching and tingling at the thought.

Oh God—what had just happened?

His breath caught as he stared at his knee, grabbing it experimentally, feeling nothing, shaking his head as if it had all been imagined. But it hadn't been, had it? Surely it was a reflex of some sort, a spasm or simply the will to feel sensation overpowering the reality of his life. Clarkson had told him he would never walk again, and he had accepted that, he had been given no choice in the matter. But this—surely not.

Heavy footfalls caught his attention, and he jerked up to see Dr. Meadows descending yet again.

"Your lad should recover fairly quickly," he smiled reassuringly. "The infection has been caught early, and he's a fine, healthy boy. I believe he may have finally worn himself out and should sleep for a while. It's the best thing for him, you know, and for your wife."

"I'm certain," Matthew returned, feeling one knot in his chest loosen even as his eyes kept returning to his legs. "Thank you, Dr. Meadows. Won't you sit down and have some tea? I can't stomach the thought of sending you out in an ice storm." He felt almost guilty for focusing on his body's phantom sensations while his child continued to fight off a fever.

"I can't say that I'm particularly fond of the notion, either," the older man grinned, his tall body easing comfortably into a chair, bushy brows raising in an unspoken thanks. "And I never turn down a good cup of tea."

"I heard that," Mrs. Jacobs called out from the kitchen, making the doctor laugh warmly and shake his head.

"Stay as long as you like," Matthew commented. "We have a spare room if conditions continue to worsen, and I'm certain Mary will have no objections to having you as a guest while Christopher is under the weather."

"I'm sure she wouldn't," Dr. Meadow's returned, removing his spectacles and rubbing the bridge of his nose. "I'd be lying if I said I wasn't concerned about her, Mr. Levinson." He smarted at the false name, knowing it was used as a protective covering, but despising the deception all the same.

"So am I, Dr. Meadows," Matthew stated softly. "She's wearing herself out trying to do too much, and I seem to be powerless to stop her." The older man chuckled slightly as he leaned back in his chair.

"I understand that feeling. My goodness, between my late wife and my sister, well, let's just say I'm accustomed to living with strong-minded women." Matthew smiled in camaraderie.

"Must be rather akin to living with my wife and my mother."

"Ah," Dr. Meadows mused. "Your mother. She wouldn't happen to be the lovely woman who stayed here for several weeks after Christopher's birth, now would she?" Matthew swallowed hard, feeling as if he were standing on the cusp of an expertly laid trap.

"Yes," he admitted, fearing another lie even more that the truth. "Why do you ask?"

"I tried to convince her to stay here and assist me," Dr. Meadows shot back with a smile. "She is a nurse of outstanding skill and boundless compassion. That combination is not found as readily in the medical profession as you might believe, unfortunately."

"Dr. Meadows, I am at a juncture in my life when I would believe almost anything," Matthew returned. "And thank you. I'll make certain to pass along the compliment to my mother." A slow nod greeted his observation as weathered green eyes stared back at him intently.

"So your name is Crawley, then, not Levinson?" Matthew gazed back at the man, feeling suddenly chilled as he attempted to unfurl his thoughts from around his tongue.

"Is that why you asked about my mother? To back me into a corner so you could fish out family secrets?" It was all he could conjure, and he knew how defensive the words sounded the instant they left his mouth.

"Not at all," the doctor voiced, raising his palms in a gesture of peace. "And please take no offense. My observations about your mother were genuine and kindly meant, as is my interest in your family, Mr. Crawley." His pulse tempered somewhat, even as he face remained heated. "I assumed your wife was unmarried and in a difficult predicament from the moment I took over her care," Dr. Meadows explained. "Of course, I would never contradict the story given to me by her or her lovely mother, but it seemed obvious to me that your wife was sent here to shield her own reputation as well as that of her family. I gather they must have more than adequate means to set her up in such accommodations."

His mind struggled to catch up with his insides as he exhaled with force. God, Mary should have never been left in such a position, and there was only one person to blame for her impossible circumstances. His leg twitched yet again. He was certain that had not been imagined.

"Please bear in mind that whether or not the two of you were wed when your son was conceived carries no weight in my perception of her or you, for that matter," Dr. Meadow's continued. "I understand that war rearranges priorities and casts black and white into shades of gray in the blink of an eye. I myself am the son of an unwed mother, raised by distant relations the first several years of my life until my mother eventually married and came to claim me as her own. I'll never forget the day she arrived at the door, all smiles and tears, so nervous she could barely speak."

He was frozen to his chair, Mary's face swimming before him as she had cradled their baby close to her chest, introducing Matthew to the wonder she had borne in solitude, waiting with baited breath for a reaction he now knew she had feared to her depths. She could have remained hidden, could have denied him this existence he now cherished. But she had chosen to share Christopher. Thank God.

"She was terrified that I would reject her," Dr. Meadows breathed. "I was just overjoyed that there was someone in this world who wanted me to call her mother. I had never had that, you understand."

"There is no one in this world more important to a child than his mother," Matthew voiced, clutching his legs firmly.

"That is true," the physician agreed. "But never underestimate the importance of a father, Mr. Crawley." The sleet's relentless pinging on the windows failed to cut through the soft roar in his head. "My father gave me his name," Dr. Meadows smiled. "Even though he was under no obligation to do so and not a drop of his blood ran in my veins. He loved my mother, you see, and because of that, he loved me, as well. He changed my life, Mr. Crawley, an educated man with a speech impediment who kept to himself most of the time. But he gave me a name, and he gave me a home. He saw to my education, and I wept as bitterly at his passing as I did at my mother's."

Matthew's heart tightened at the thoughts of what could have happened had Mary chosen to relocate to America. Would she have married someone else, someone who would have overlooked her past quicker than he, someone who would have gladly given Christopher his name and raised him as his own, effectively denying him the right to ever know his son? His insides clenched at the notion.

"Never underestimate your importance in your son's life," the older man insisted, pressing his elbows to his knees. "Regardless of your physical limitations. Regardless of how difficult your current circumstances may seem. Always remember that you are the only father he has."

"I will," Matthew voiced, his tone ragged as if pocked with pebbles. "He and his mother are everything to me."

Shutters rattled with the wind's renewed fury, and Matthew wheeled forward, prodding the fire until dying flames found renewed vigor, their brightness licking dry wood until it popped in acceptance of its consumption.

"I have come to admire your wife very much indeed. Choosing to give birth to and keep her child, regardless of what it must have cost her...that takes a special kind of woman, especially when there are so many who are too keen to pass judgment."

"Mary is an extraordinary woman," Matthew managed, his throat constricting uncomfortably. "More extraordinary than you know."

"I don't doubt it," the older man stated. "And I'm gratified to see that you recognize that and love her for it. I often wondered about Christopher's father, whether he was an outright cad or a man of character and worth who would do right by the mother of his child." His ribs were practically pressing into one another, or so it felt, and he willed himself to sit up tall and look the other man eye to eye.

"Are such descriptions mutually-exclusive, do you think? A Cad and a man of principles? Or can they co-exist in one body?"

Dr. Meadow's brows raised in a gesture of respect.

"Jekyll and Hyde, so to speak?" he questioned with a begrudging nod. "I daresay we are all very capable of demonstrating characteristics of both at different junctures in our lives, circumstance, emotions, and basic human stupidity being what they are. No human being is ever one-sided." He shifted slightly in his chair, shaking his head ruefully.

"At times, honor can blind us to our own hypocrisy."

"Yes," the doctor agreed. "Yes, it can. All too easily. Thankfully humility has a way of restoring our vision, wouldn't you say?"

He stared at his legs yet again, longing to feel anything, even a jolt of pain just to assure him he wasn't losing his mind.

"Yes, Dr. Meadows. Humility can be a harsh but necessary tutor."

"That it can," the older man sighed. "Now, tell me about your legs, Mr. Crawley." Matthew glanced up as quickly as his breath had caught.

"What do you mean?" Fingers ransacked a head full of bushy white hair as the man laughed softly.

"I mean you've been staring at them periodically throughout our conversation as if you're afraid they might catch fire," Dr. Meadows replied. "So tell me—have you felt something?"

His insides felt gelatinous, quivering into and around each other as if they were incapable of retaining shape.

"I…I thought I had," he breathed, unable to look at the other man directly. "A few minutes ago. But it's impossible. I know." The doctor stood and walked to his side.

"How do you know it's impossible?" Dr. Meadows asked simply, stretching his arm towards the limbs in question, asking permission with his brow. "Have you consulted God recently?" He nearly bit his tongue in the literal sense.

"Because I was told as much by another physician," Matthew shot back, defensive for no reason, and irritated three strides past frustration. "He told me that I would never be able to walk or to father children again, and believe me, there is no possible way that I misunderstood his meaning." The words still burned his tongue, just as their meaning scorched his mind and spirit, leaving him charred and empty in places meant to be filled.

"Physicians can be mistaken, Mr. Crawley," the doctor stated flatly. "I should know. I am, often enough." His vision darkened, even as images became acutely bright, pressing themselves into the shadows of perception and reality as he felt the foundations of his life tremor yet again.

"So what are you saying, exactly?" Matthew tossed back. "That it is possible that I felt some sensations?" He fought the temptation to plug his ears, afraid of either response the doctor might offer.

"I believe it is possible," Dr. Meadows stated softly. "Although what it might mean is debatable at this stage." He couldn't feel his feet, yet they seemed to burn through the soles of his shoes, half-tempting him to throw all reason to the wind and attempt to stand on his own.

"Go on," he murmured, tasting each vowel and constant as it left his mouth.

"Well," the doctor hummed. "It could me no more than a reflexive movement of muscle to one stimulus or another, something you may experience on occasion but with no regularity." How his heart managed to sink when he had been purposely shoving it down bothered him more than it should have. "However, it could be that your paralysis is a temporary response to swelling around your spinal cord," the doctor continued. "And that as your body continues to heal and the swelling abate, both sensation and use may be regained either in part or in full, depending upon how much of the swelling recedes, of course." The room began to spin around him as his throat was drained of moisture instantaneously.

"You mean I could walk again?" The wind moaned, forlorn and hollow, as if in protest of the mere possibility.

"Yes. I mean you could walk again, as well as perhaps regain functionality in other areas."

"Christ," he muttered, rubbing his jaw, beginning to feel nearly detached from his body. What this could mean for him, for his marriage, for his family. No. He couldn't run ahead of himself before he possessed the ability to stand.

"I could examine you if you like to see if I can offer you anything more concrete that what I have," the older man offered. "There will still be a good amount of hyphothesizing involved, you understand, but examinations performed on a regular basis might reveal a progression that could lead to a more substantial prognosis."

"Of course," he breathed, staring into nothing and everything, terrified to hope yet unable to curtail the stirrings of that most damning of emotions. "When would you like to begin?"

"No time like the present, is there?" Moisture left his mouth in full, and his arm began to tremble with a ferocity he hadn't felt in weeks.

"I sent Bentley home," Matthew interjected, despising the unsteadiness in his tone. "Because of the storm. I told him I could sleep in the chair tonight, that getting me up the steps wasn't worth the possibility of him getting stranded here away from his family."

"I'm not planning on attempting to carry you upstairs, Mr. Crawley," the doctor chuckled. "But we can use your study for the examination, can we not?" Matthew stared down the small corridor in the direction of the room they had fashioned for that purpose, nodding wordlessly as he began to move his chair. "Is there a reason you and your wife haven't made that your bedroom? It seems to me it would offer you far more independence if you weren't forced to worry over the stairs on a daily basis." He paused, his mouth gaping open as the ice continued its arrhythmic tattoo on the house's outer surface.

"I suppose we hadn't thought of it," he replied. "And the bedroom is next to the nursery. Mary wouldn't want to be so far from Christopher at night."

"And you don't think that this small parlor would suffice as a nursery?" Dr. Meadows questioned, indicating a room just to his right.

"I thought we were discussing the possibility of me regaining the use of my legs," Matthew threw in. "But it sounds as though you are preparing me for a lifetime of immobility."

"Hardly, Mr. Crawley," the doctor returned as they entered the study. "But even if you regain the ability to walk, full healing takes time. Stairs are quite an obstacle for someone just learning to use his legs again, and the more you can do for yourself, the better your state of mind. Am I right?" His pulse was nearly deafening, making it difficult for him to process all of what Dr. Meadows was saying.

"Yes," Matthew returned, his brow creasing as he sought to clarify what was muddled in his mind. "But I can hardly ask Mary and Mrs. Jacobs to move furniture and redecorate the house." The physician shook his head, inhaling audibly as he rubbed his chin.

"No," Dr. Meadows replied. "You cannot. But I know several people nearby who would be happy to help a young family settle in properly. We could have it done for you within a few hours."

"Then do it."

Both men turned in surprise, and Matthew wondered how in God's name he hadn't heard her descend the stairs. Mary was pale, fatigue etched clearly across her features, but there was a spark of determination in her eyes that gave him hope.

"Whatever will help Matthew is our priority," she continued with conviction, stepping closer to them both. "And if there's a chance that…that he…" Her voice cracked, and Matthew reached for her hand, clasping it to his chest, forging a connection they both needed.

"It's only a possibility, you understand," Dr. Meadows put forth. "But one that should be explored."

"By all means," Mary returned. "We shall do whatever is necessary." Something shifted yet again between them, a newly forged solidarity that bolstered his spirit. God, he knew what it would cost her to open their home to relative strangers, how uncomfortable it would make her to bring others into this place she had so carefully crafted into a safe and private haven. But she would do it. For him. His admiration for his wife swelled in his chest.

"Thank you," Matthew managed, giving her hand a squeeze. Her full gaze hit him squarely, and he recognized the scent of fragile desperation.

"No," she argued. "I should have thought of this when we first married. It would make your life so much simpler and reduce your need for Bentley's assistance."

"You can't think of everything, darling," he returned, the use of this endearment hitting them both squarely in the stomach. Her fingers trembled in his grasp, her lips moving wordlessly as her free hand toyed with a stray lock of dark hair. The need to pull her into his arms and kiss her soundly was overpowering.

"No one can think of everything," Dr. Meadows agreed, looking at Mary intently. "Go lie down, Mrs. Crawley. You need to sleep. Doctor's orders." Her eyes rounded upon hearing her true surname, and her eyes flittered between the physician and Matthew, fixing on her husband's nodded response. "Then I expect you to eat every bite of your dinner," the older man continued. "And it would seem I'll be joining you as the ice has no intention of letting up anytime soon, so there will be no playing with your food tonight. Is that understood?"

A ghost of a smile tugged on her lips as one brow drew upwards.

"Why do I feel like a girl of ten?" she mused.

"Because we all need some extra attention at certain points in our lives," he answered, his gaze travelling from wife to husband. "It is evident that the two of you have traveled a rather rocky path, but you have each other now, as well as your son. And if I may be so bold, Mrs. Crawley, if you don't begin to take better care of yourself, your ability to care for your son will suffer immensely. Do this for Christopher if for no one else." She swallowed hard, nodding with downcast eyes, silently acknowledging the truth laid blatantly before her.

"You strike a low blow, Dr. Meadows," she returned with begrudging admiration.

"Only to those I care about, Mrs. Crawley," he smiled, making her chin quiver. "Now if I may, I'd very much like to examine your husband so we all can have a clearer idea of the road ahead."

She nodded yet again, her hand clasping Matthew's tightly, making him love her all the more. God, he didn't know how it was possible that his feelings for her continually expanded, be they adoration, wonder, anger or sheer lust. But they did, hitting him soundly now with the mere chance that he might be able to be a proper husband to her. His fingers suddenly went cold, a thought he couldn't voice smacking him with force. What if she didn't want him in such a manner? What if she found the thought more terrifying than pleasurable? He couldn't blame her if she did, given her past history with sexual intimacy. He prayed silently that he had not had a hand in ruining this aspect of her life forever. She deserved so much more.

He felt her hand slip from his, absorbed the cool feathered kiss to his cheek and brush on his shoulder, watching as she made her way back up the steps and to their bedroom. _Rest, Mary_ , he chanted to himself, her exhaustion still imprinted onto his skin, his gaze following her form until it was no longer visible.

She felt his eyes on her back, caressing her spine with the delicacy of spun silk. She longed to be with him yet needed to be alone, an intense tug-of-war pulling her mind and emotions in opposing directions. _Please, God_ , she whispered to the walls of their bedroom, the cool wood of the door pressing into her back as she leaned into it for support. Her hands still shook, her insides swirling with the force of a hurricane, and she shut her eyes to her surroundings, seeing Matthew as he had been when he had walked into that concert at Downton. Standing. Smiling. Whole. Oh, God.

Everything broke apart then, spilling out, rushing forward, and she nearly fell onto the bed, muffling sobs into her pillow, fisting the blankets so tightly her hands hurt. She couldn't afford to hope, hadn't the strength to love him like this, but here it was, churning within her, demolishing protective walls, making her more vulnerable than she had ever felt in her life. She loved him. She loved him so desperately and knew he now possessed the power to destroy her once and for all. If he could walk again—God, how marvelous, how perfect, how terrifyingly wonderful. What would it mean for their marriage, for the fragile relationship they had begun to craft piece by piece? But if he couldn't…if Dr. Meadows were mistaken….

Damn. She was going to be ill.

She just made it to the toilet, losing what little she had digested in a single wretch. Her head hurt, her eyes burned, and she collapsed into the corner, fear and tension rushing down her cheeks in a small tsunami. She couldn't allow herself to hope, but neither could she stop herself, and she finally gave up the battle, crying until no tears remained, standing on wobbly legs to make her way back to her bed. _Oh, Matthew_ , she breathed into silence, her hands moving to her abdomen as they had so often during her pregnancy. Would there be more children, she could not help but wonder, her body going rigid as the talons of painful memories bore into her skin. The way he had glared at her, the hurt in his eyes, the rigid lines of his mouth, they continued to haunt her dreams and brand her soul with a pain she found nearly impossible to verbalize.

Yet there had been moments of excruciating beauty, and she allowed herself to remember the awe-struck reverence on his face when she stood naked before him, the tenderness of first touch, the intensity of his mouth on her flesh. It had all been so perfect until— No. That road had been traveled enough, and she had to find a new direction for the sake of their marriage. She drew back the covers mindlessly, her limbs heavy and lumbering, all thought getting wrapped in a blessed numbness—worry for her son, speculation over Matthew's condition, the reworking of their house, a future moving in yet another direction she never anticipated. She fell into the pillows, drawing the blankets up to her chin, her body going limp upon contact.

_Please, God_ , she whispered yet again, her feelings for her husband and son too overwhelming for anything more than this plea. The tendrils of sleep responded immediately, pulling her securely in a gentle rocking motion, a warm blackness covering her spirit in wisps of velvet, Matthew's name the last thing whispered from her lips as her body and mind finally allowed her to rest.


	15. Chapter 15

"It went well, don't you think?"

Matthew's question pulled her gaze from the window where she stood watching the last of their neighbors trudge home through drifting snow, Christopher held snugly to her chest, the boy toying with her necklace precariously.

"Very well," she returned, making her way back to the sofa, soaking the fire's warmth into her toes as she kicked off her shoes and settled the baby comfortably on to her lap. "I had no idea Vicar Ferguson was so skilled with a hammer."

Matthew chuckled, clearly envisioning the wiry little man explaining in dramatic fashion why nails must always be driven into a loose floor board in one direction rather than another.

"He is rather passionate about it," he returned, enjoying the tired smile that stretched across her features. "And I had no idea his wife was such an excellent cook. Her pasties were the best I've eaten since I last visited my Aunt Gertrude."

"Careful," Mary instructed conspiratorially. "If Mrs. Jacobs hears you, there's no telling what we'll be served for breakfast tomorrow." He laughed outright, and the sound of it warmed her in regions that had felt frozen for what seemed like a lifetime. She extricated her pearls from her son's mouth, pulling the necklace over her head and setting it just beyond Christopher's reach, much to the child's consternation.

"If we're served burned toast rather than kippers and eggs, I'll take the blame," he offered, sighing into the room and leaning into his chair.

"No matter who takes the blame, I'll be cross with you the rest of the day if my toast is burned," she returned, rubbing her temple with her thumb, the orange hues of the fire luring her closer. "And you know what I'm like when I'm cross."

"All too well," he grinned, earning himself a pointed glare, chuckling at his son's futile efforts to reclaim his prize. "He's a determined little fellow, isn't he?" Her face brightened as she stroked what few golden hairs adorned his head.

"He comes by it naturally, I'm afraid," she returned, catching Matthew's eyes shining back at her.

"His determination or his near baldness?"

She laughed at this, Matthew's resulting glare making it all the funnier.

"Both, I daresay," she teased. "Although I'm thinking more of Papa than of you when it comes to the latter."

"Thank God," he breathed, catching her eyes in the crackling hues of firelight. The sudden intensity of his gaze was almost too much for her to take in, burning past layers of clothing and emotional fortification. Months of hurt and misunderstanding melted into this heat, exposing new flesh covering old wounds as fresh air stirred in her lungs. A charged silence rippled between them, its current strong and steady, hitting her with the same force as it had in that cabin when they had stood speechless on the edge of an abyss. Forbidden passion had set them on this rocky course, fighting their way up steep slopes and rough terrain, enduring one relentless storm after another. Had they at last reached an oasis of sorts in the midst of winter's bite?

They had become easy companions, refortifying conversation and trust day by day, moment by moment, touch by touch. Joy would catch her unawares at the oddest of moments, as did an unexpected peace she welcomed, even if she was unsure of what to do with it. Peace was not an emotion with which she was familiar, yet it caught up with her when her son latched on to her breast, when he drifted to sleep in her arms, when she would catch her husband staring at them with such wells of emotion she could almost not bear to look. Was it just possible they could be happy together? She and Matthew? After years of pain and loss? Christopher then went for an earring, and she pulled him from the bobble before removing it out of necessity.

"Little thief," she admonished, staring into eyes as brown as her own, his determined quest unaffected by his mother's reproof. "I'm afraid I may have to forego wearing jewelry for quite some time."

"It sparkles and it moves," Matthew observed, his gaze upon her steady and fixed. "No wonder he can't resist the allure to touch it." Her pulse accelerated in her neck.

"And do you find my bobbles irresistible?" she questioned coyly. "Is it difficult for you not to touch?" God, she was actually flirting with her husband, and she felt the shock of her own daring everywhere. All pretense washed away, and for a moment they were as they had been: no scars, no rejection, no war. Just two people longing for what was just out of their reach.

"Next to impossible sometimes," he whispered, his hands flexing, the almost indiscernible movement making her tingle all over. "Of course, self-restraint is not exactly my strong suit, is it?" His words stung, and she wanted to correct him but found herself at a bit of a loss.

"I'm not certain either of us are all that adept at that discipline," she finally admitted, kissing their child's warm forehead, treasuring the physical result of their lack of restraint. She smiled as a slobbery hand reached out for her cheek, taking in the miracle of who he was. "But if we had been…" Her sentence reached out to him, eyes locking yet again as their son continued to explore his mother's face and wardrobe.

"I know," he exhaled meaningfully, her skin prickling as if he had touched her. He then inhaled audibly, and he looked around their home as if examining it for the first time. "Well," he continued haltingly. "Do you like it?" Her gaze traveled in the direction of their new bedroom, and she fought back the urge to walk back into its confines and simply absorb its atmosphere. The room was welcoming, decorated by neighbors with a home-spun beauty and an eye for practicality, so different from the elegance of her bedroom at Downton, yet worlds apart from the room upstairs in which she had slept in cold solitude for nearly a year.

She had been secretly relieved to give up that room.

Wide pathways were deliberately left open in their new quarters, making it much easier for Matthew to maneuver the space with his wheelchair. Pictures had been hung and displayed, the bookshelf rearranged so it reflected both of their tastes, and a hooked rug spread out to cover the floor, all touches adding warm tones to a room clearly meant to be lived in and enjoyed. Rails had been attached to the bedframe, and she had nearly wept at the relative ease with which her husband could now hoist himself up from the mattress. Her heart swelled at the thought of what increased independence could do for Matthew's state of mind. Not to mention what it could do for their marriage.

"Yes," she answered truthfully. "I like it very much." His eyes traveled down her neck, brushing just past her ear, lingering at her neckline, and she shifted on the sofa, wondering if she could afford him a better view. Her pores prickled at the thought, her breasts tingling under her shift. God—where had that come from?

"So do I," he breathed, loosening his tie. "It's beyond my highest hopes."

Heated moisture pooled between her thighs, a sensation she had nearly forgotten but welcomed with an unexpected shyness. It lapped against her psyche in small waves, reminding her that beneath layers of duty, motherhood and outright fear, she was still a woman. A woman falling back in love with her husband, she quietly admitted to herself, staring into depths of blue darkening by the second. He felt it, too, she realized, an emotion heavier than their hurt, a desire stronger than physical limitations. She didn't know whether to feel elated or terrified by this.

"I'm glad," she whispered through a thickened larynx, her hands trembling of their own will.

"So am I," he returned, wheeling himself in her direction, her pulse picking up as it had when he had been at her side, singing that duet at Downton as her heart had soared freely out of her chest. How long ago that moment seemed, a fragment from another lifetime forever embedded into her soul.

"I think Christopher has taken well to his new nursery," she managed, unable to meet his eyes.

"How could he not?" Matthew smiled, his tone low and resonant. "What with his new rocking chair and stick horse made by Mr. Abernathy, a new quilt from Mrs. Larson, and a stuffed pig from Mr. McTavish."

"Mrs. Larson was so sweet with him," Mary mused as her gaze traveled to the nursery door. "I thought she might never hand him over when it was time for him to nurse."

"She lost a son in the war," Matthew muttered, his eyes clouding with a brokenness Mary had come to recognize. "I believe Christopher brings her a level of comfort she needs in her life." She noted the slight tremor in his hand he tried to hide from her.

"Just as he has done for us," Mary stated softly as their eyes locked yet again. "I should have her over for tea."

"I think that would mean the world to her," Matthew nodded, taking her hand within his, making her pulse skip a beat. How warm his fingers felt as they rubbed her own gently, how ludicrous that such innocent touch should send her insides into chaotic frenzy. "A widow whose only living child lives in London—I'm certain the invitation would bolster her spirits."

"Then I'll send a note tomorrow," she managed, staring down at his lap in an attempt to gather lost composure. Her eyes caught a slight movement, and they widened exponentially, her heart skipping a beat as her spine straightened. "Matthew," she exclaimed. "You just moved your foot." Her breath caught in her rib cage as her gaze fixed firmly on to his.

"I know," he whispered, seemingly as shocked by the turn of events as she. "I don't know how I did it, but…Oh, God, Mary. Oh, God."

For a moment, they did nothing but breathe into each other, and she attempted to will his foot to move again, watching lines of intense concentration twitch across his forehead.

"Don't try to force it," she stated as her hand squeezed his. "Remember what Dr. Meadows said—that if your spine truly is healing, it will happen in its own time."

"I know," he sighed, obviously caught between joy and frustration. "But waiting for something like this, something this important, it's…" He stopped suddenly, staring into her, reaching past what defenses remained standing, tugging on every emotional string she possessed. "It's difficult to wait when I want it so badly."

His whisper stroked her spine and thighs simultaneously, his eyes full and heavy, his mouth too close. Time was frozen, and she felt suspended between two worlds—the girl she had been and the woman she was—both staring into eyes that both reduced her to ash and made her feel the most glorious things imaginable. Christopher then squealed into her ear, nearly diving over both of them in pursuit of her necklace, intruding into a moment neither of them were sure how to handle. Her breath caught then resumed in catches as a smile broke over her mouth, and she laughed, a raw, breathless surge that bubbled out of her freely. It was a most welcome release, and she embraced it, letting it ripple up from her stomach in gusts that shook her entire body. Her mind spun haphazardly as more and more spilled out, making her sides ache as she bit her lower lip in a useless attempt to stop. Then Matthew joined her, his joy infections, and their baby stared at the ruckus going on around him with eyes rounded in surprise. She felt light and glorious, hope infusing parts of her sealed off far too long, and she clung to the two who meant more than her own life as happiness teased her with its allure.

"Mary," he voiced, her breath coming in ragged pants, his face closer than she had realized, his scent hitting her full force and pulling her back into his realm. His eyes traveled every crevice of her face, resting a fraction of a breath on her lips, narrowing over her mouth, looking back to her with an expression of tempered longing. Then his hand was on her cheek, his face just there, and she recognized the heady fullness in his gaze. It was the look he had worn before he kissed her at the train station, the same one she witnessed just before he had kissed her in their cabin.

Her head began to buzz.

Panic shot through her, and she licked her lips, leaning back just a fraction, missing his proximity immediately but finding herself able to breathe once more.

"I should go and get ready for bed," he whispered, clearly embarrassed as he rolled himself backwards, away from her, out of her reach. "So Bentley can get home at a decent hour." The pressure behind her eye sockets intensified.

"Alright," she returned quietly, standing and moving Christopher to her shoulder in an attempt to sound unaffected. "I'll try to get this one to sleep."

"Of course."

His sigh was nearly inaudible but heavily felt, and it pressed down on every nerve in her body as disappointment weighed down his shoulders. He refused to look at her as he wheeled away, and she fought back the urge to grab his arm and stop him, to kiss him fully on the mouth rather than cautiously on the cheek or lips, to taste him as her husband rather than as the man she had had to marry. Yet her mind rebelled, caution reigning in sentiment and impulse, self-preservation rising up between them. God—she wasn't ready for this, they weren't ready—were they? Ready for what, exactly? More than conversation. More than innocuous kisses and uncertain touches, more than meaningful glances or simply sharing the same sheets. Her heart fluttered precariously with the motion of a caged butterfly, knowing it was leading her down a trail littered with the jagged edges of painful memories and dashed expectations. Could it also be a place of healing, she wondered, of mending and binding, of renewal and peace?

It was certainly a place both familiar and yet completely unknown. They were married, after all. In all ways but one, she reminded herself pointedly, although consummation had taken place long before their wedding. But sex was impossible for them, at least for the time being, although there were other ways to be intimate, ways she caught herself entertaining as she rocked on the verge between sleep and consciousness. Did she want to take this risk? Did she dare avoid it much longer?

She shook herself, seeking clarity, finding only further confusion as Christopher's head bobbed gently against her chest in an exhausted plea. She settled him to nurse, the boy latching on immediately with gusto, relieving the pressure in her breast, allowing at least one ache to subside. She gazed at her child, watching his eyes become heavy as his belly filled, the rhythmic tug on her nipple relaxing in tempo until his lips hung slack on puckered skin. She moved him carefully to her shoulder, rubbing his back so his belly wouldn't awaken him before finally placing him in his crib and righting her dress.

It was then she saw it.

A slip of paper lying in the corner, apparently dropped and forgotten when the rooms were changed earlier today. She moved quickly to retrieve it, wondering if it had fallen from Matthew's desk or from the covers of a book, and she picked it up quietly, moving to the low light of the lamp to solve this small mystery. Not a receipt. Not legal correspondence.

Oh God…a letter. From Matthew. To her. From the front. After they had made love. After he had left her.

She couldn't breathe.

All feeling left her feet as her hands shook wildly, her vision blurring as she fought back tears before the first word was read.

_Dearest Mary,_

_I know I haven't the right to address you in such a manner, but I pray you will forgive me this breech of propriety under the circumstances. I have written you so many times over the past few months but have lacked to courage to post a single letter. War or no war, when it comes to what matters most in this life, I have proven myself to be a coward in the worst sense of the word. But I do intend to post this letter, for it may be the final opportunity I am given in this life to do so._

_You see, last night I dreamed of you and Downton, and it disturbed me greatly. You were dressed in white and walking through the snow, your hair down as it always is when I dream of you. I cried out to you several times, but you couldn't hear me, and you ran into a fog in which I lost you. No matter how loudly I yelled, how deliberately I searched, you were nowhere to be found. And then it dawned on me that I was dead._

_Yes. I dream of you often. Sometimes we argue, sometimes we kiss, sometimes we make love and lie happily in each other's arms. But last night I lost you to a winter that claimed my life, and with that I lost the opportunity to make things right between us forever. The very thought terrified me._

_A written apology can never compensate for the deplorable manner in which I treated you, and I could not blame you if you burned this letter to ash without reading its contents. I don't deserve your forgiveness or compassion, but I still must own full responsibility for my reprehensible actions. I blamed you for a past that mirrored what was taking place between us, and I did it out of jealousy and hurt. The fault was mine and mine alone. Not yours. Never yours._

_I wish I could tell you these things in person, but I fear I shall never be granted such an opportunity. This may be the last letter I write, and if I die tomorrow as I believe that I might, I want you to know that I have always loved you, Mary Crawley, and I shall do so until the last breath leaves my body. Forgive me if you can. I pray that God already has._

_All of my love,_

_Matthew_

Her hand flew to her mouth, and she choked back a sob, determined not to wake her son but unable to quell the flood of emotion welling up inside of her. She bit her own hand as her throat clenched audibly, and she breathed in through her nose repeatedly until she regained the ability to remain silent.

Matthew had written to her.

It was just as he had said, and she stared at words penned on the eve of battle, heartfelt pleas for absolution crying out for her as he walked knowingly into the melee which claimed his legs. What he had believed would be his final act was to tell her he loved her. He had truly loved her. All this time. In the midst of his rejection—even while he remained engaged to Lavinia—he had loved her. Dear God. Why had he not posted this letter? Would it have reached her if he had? Or would her mother have seen it destroyed before she ever caught wind of its existence? Would it have changed things between them sooner? Did it even matter now?

Matthew was no longer at the front but here, in their bedroom, their new bedroom designed especially for them, a bedroom free from past associations or pesky apparitions. He was in there, readying himself for bed, preparing himself for another night of being held to a certain distance by her own fears and misgivings. And he was alive. Wounded, marked, but very much alive. She knew immediately what needed to be done.

Cold fingers wiped her cheeks, and she began to pull the pins from her hair, making her way up the stairs to her small dressing room, left as it had been per her request. Dark locks spilled down her back, and she picked up her brush, closing her eyes as she tended to her hair, attempting to control her pulse as it threatened to consume her.

_Your hair down as it always is when I dream of you._

She brushed her fingers through long, silky strands, twirling them loosely around one digit, wondering how often he had longed to do this very thing. How would Matthew respond if she went to him with her hair unbound? Would he caress it? Kiss it? Breathe it in with the same passion that had rocked every facet of her life as it created their son? Her nipples hardened into small nubs as her heart raced ahead of her, and she traced one with the pad of her thumb, closing her eyes to better absorb the tendrils of want curling up under her naval. She allowed her hand to travel slowly down her stomach, feeling renewed life spring up under her own touch, stopping at the coarse edge of what sheltered her womanhood. She marveled at the various textures of her body, the cool smooth plains of skin, the prickly allure of hair covering the juncture of her thighs as opposed to what fell freely down her back. His hair had been just as coarse but lighter in shade.

Would he ever allow her to touch him there, to explore ground still numb to sensation? Would he ever be able to feel her touch him as she had but once in secret?

She selected her nightgown with care, choosing one of ivory and lace, one that barely covered her nudity, one she had not worn since leaving Downton. Her reflection gazed back at her, determined, terrified, uncertain yet aroused, and she gathered her dressing gown around her exposed body, seeking the resolve to leave the protection of this small room and join her husband downstairs. Her knees knocked against each other. She chastised herself, reminding her nerves that she was not a virgin, that Matthew had seen all of her before, that he was her husband, that this was now right and good. But logic competed with emotion, memories of another man's dead weight pressed on to bare skin and of Matthew's brutal rejection dwelling just there below the surface, both still toxic to fragile nerves.

Enough of this. Her past had controlled her present long enough.

She heard Bentley exit the house as an otherworldly hush settled in. Her breath steadied, her fingers flexed, and she turned and faced her closed door, moving forward until her hand rested unsteadily on the rusty knob. It was time.

The metal felt cold in her hand and resisted her efforts to turn it at first, but the door opened, its hinges protesting only slightly as the moonlight flooding in to greet her somehow imparted courage to watery limbs. She felt each step creak under her feet, memorizing the texture of the banister as it rubbed against her palm, feeling her skin prepare itself for far more intimate touch. Her feet carried her to another door, one left cracked open for her, one from which soft light beamed invitingly through the cracks, one through which she must walk in order to reclaim her life. Her palm rested on the wooden surface, and she breathed in the scent of their home, allowing it to rush over senses and fill what remained empty. She pressed the door open, amazed that it made no sound. He was sitting upright in the bed, a book in his hands, his gaze fixed yet distant on the pages before him. He turned to smile at her, unaware of what little she wore underneath her robe.

"There you are," he murmured. "I was afraid I had frightened you off." Her lips wouldn't move, but her body tugged her forward, and she walked to his side of the bed, stopping just in front of him as her frame shook all over. "Are you alright?" he whispered, pushing himself up as upright as he could, the book all but forgotten and cast to the bedside table. "Is the fire not warm enough? You look as though you're freezing."

Her toes were like ice, but other parts of her felt hot.

"I'm not cold," she managed, her arms visibly trembling. "I…"

Words left her then as her gaze fixed on her husband, her every thought honing in on this man so intricately woven into her life, this man whom she had loved in silence for far too long, this man who had given her a child, this man who now needed what only she could give him. Her fingers slowly undid the ties of her dressing gown. She heard him swallow as her covering fell to the floor, and she trembled as silken fabric brushed her pores on its downward spiral, almost feeling as if she had shed a second skin. She then met his eyes, watching as they traveled up her body, seeing raw astonishment gaze back at her from widened sockets.

"Mary?"

Her name was barely audible, but it left his lips and pressed into her soul, nudging her to ease a thin strap off her shoulder even as she paused to catch her breath. He gazed at her as if she were a goddess. It was difficult to swallow. She then moved the other strap, feeling it hover just over her shoulder blade as she allowed her nightgown to slide off her torso. She then stood before him naked: his lover, his wife, his Mary.

His mouth hung open in shock.

This somehow emboldened her actions even as the fire warmed her buttocks, and she moved close enough to take his hand, cradling within her own, memorizing the feel of bone and muscle.

"God," he breathed, bringing her palm to his mouth, kissing her with a pent-up passion she recognized at once. Her knees wobbled as he looked back up at her, what she saw in his face making her feel more beautiful than she ever had in her life.

"No," she whispered. "Just me."

A small smile pulled at his lips as his tears washed away her remaining reservations.

"You're glorious," he rasped, his hand shaking as it reached out to skim her waist, setting off a chain reaction that rocked her everywhere at once. She climbed on top of him, straddling his waist, touching his face as his hands caressed her arms with a reverence that unraveled her knot by knot.

Here they were, face to face, touch to touch, breath to breath. Husband and wife. And at least for this moment, it was more than enough.


	16. Chapter 16

His lips were just there, his mouth so close, his breath caressing her skin in a manner so intimate it nearly robbed her of her own. But it was quiet…too quiet. Far too quiet when she was sitting on top of her husband, completely naked, raw and fragile, utterly exposed.

God, she was nervous, more nervous than she had been with him in the cabin, perhaps even more than she had been with Pamuk. There was so much more at stake here, their lives, their child, their marriage, yet an unbreakable cord fastened her to him, one that pulled her relentlessly forward, one that warmed her insides even as her nerves shook. She rubbed her nose next to his, his hand moving to cup the back of her head, his other skimming her outer thigh in a movement that made her lungs tighten.

"Kiss me, Matthew," she whispered, and she felt him tremble uncontrollably around her. "Please."

He swallowed, his eyes closed heavily, and he slowly brought his lips to hers, the feel of his mouth on her own sending a jolt everywhere at once even though the pressure applied was no more than that of a puff of fog.

"Mary," he breathed, and she was the one who shivered, her nipples hardening in the cool air even as the fire warmed her back. "I—we—"

Then there were no more words, everything between them as bare as her skin, all the hurt in their past aired out and exposed. This was a time for newness, for rebirth, and she touched his face, her eyes moist, her fingers chilled.

"I know," she somehow voiced. And he knew that she did.

Then his mouth touched hers once again, a caress, then a nudge, lips tasting and sampling once forbidden nectar now ripening under love's tender stroke. He pulled her closer, she moved forward on his lap, allowing her arms to encircle him as his hands made their way slowly up and down her back.

"God," he whispered, his voice cracking under feelings too heavy for speech. He was her husband, now more so than ever as his hands continued to stroke her legs, her spine. He tasted of peppermint and smelled of pine, the combination hitting her squarely in the gut and instigating a muted pulse. A small knot formed in her belly, one of heat and need, one blossoming out in small tendrils as he drew her upper lip into his, one establishing itself as her tongue sought entrance into his mouth.

She both heard and felt his sharp intake of breath, sensed his initial hesitation just before he responded in kind. She breathed him in, he tasted and lavished, lips and teeth, tongue and skin all absorbing and craving, taking in their fill after a long season of famine. His hand began to shake, the one that often got away from him, and she clutched it to her stomach, holding it gently as she rubbed its surface.

"I'm sorry," he stated, his face reddening out of frustration. "I hate that…"

"Shhh," she instructed, touching her finger to his lips as she continued to press his arm to her naval, where his child had grown only months prior. "Just relax into it, Matthew. Don't fight so hard. Let it pass."

His face betrayed his struggle and shame, and she knew how difficult this was for him, how he hated losing control of parts of his own body, how this reoccurring tremor made him feel weak and undisciplined. But he inhaled slowly at her bidding, allowing his forehead to touch down on hers, and she cradled his head in her palm, kissing his cheek before drawing his face to her neck.

"I don't know why this happens," he panted, and she felt the sheen of sweat on his forehead, rubbing his brow with her thumb. "It just hits without warning, like I'm being ambushed by my own body."

She breathed into his hair, stroking it in a manner that reminded her of how her mother had done so for her when she had been a girl terribly ill with bronchitis.

"It's the war," she returned softly, and she felt his nod as his arm pressed over her womb. "And wars rarely make sense, you know."

He tried to smile at her comment, she felt the slight tug of his lips against her shoulder, but he couldn't quite manage it, not while his own limb still betrayed him.

"It hasn't left me yet," he confessed brokenly. "I don't know if it ever will."

She raised up to kiss his forehead, allowing her hair to cover them both, creating a sort of cocoon that made her think of a grotto at night, alive and full of promise, pulsing with life and danger.

"I know," she nodded, tracing his cheekbone with the pad of her thumb. "But it will fade, I believe. With time."

The small spasms were subsiding, their rhythm easing off into patterns that somehow reminded Mary of ripples in a pond just upset by a stone. Fewer in number and slower in pace.

"See?" she questioned directly into his ear. "It's going away." She continued to stroke his arm as his breath warmed her neck, his face hot, his legs cool. They remained locked into each other, a sort of living sculpture, one fused together by blood and pain.

"But you're not?"  
His question was barely a whisper, but the desperation and fear contained within were palpable.

"No," she answered, her own hands trembling. "I'm not going anywhere." The irony of her statement was lost on neither of them.

"Which is why you are far better than I."

She shook her head at his words, pushing them back, away from what they were crafting here.

"That's the past," she whispered, her eyes shutting to images of him leaving her naked and alone, struggling to cover herself with a blanket. "We have to let that go now, Matthew, or we'll never move forward."

He nodded, the tear coursing down his cheek making her ache for him even more. It was then she realized that there was no shame now in her nudity, that there was no need for covering, that she felt fresh and alive being undressed in his presence, even if somewhat exposed. She shifted slightly on his lap, unlocking her legs, returning circulation to creases held immobile as she continued to hold him close. His arm shook sporadically until the spasms finally ceased, and he breathed in languidly, stroking her hair with a reverence she couldn't fathom.

"Thank you," he breathed, his voice cracking as it fell off his tongue. She leaned into him, her breasts just skimming his pajama top, and she slowly undid a button, laying her palm on his chest, needing to feel his bare skin with her own. His heart beat firmly against her pulse, the life there strong and vital yet more fragile than she could let herself entertain. How easily she could have lost him forever.

How easily he could have died having never known his own son.

"Better now?" she asked, leaning back just enough to see the truth in his expression. What she saw looking back at her nearly sucked the air from her lungs.

His eyes were lustrous, full of her, heavy with remorse, yet dark with want. She couldn't help but stare at him, this expression similar yet worlds apart from how he had looked at her in the cabin. There, she had made love to a soldier, the younger Matthew she had loved in a deep naivety. But the man in bed with her now was her husband, the father of her son, the maimed survivor who refused to be broken even when facing monstrous odds.

He licked his lips, but otherwise didn't move, although his expression was as alert as she had ever seen it. His eyes studied her, absorbed her, memorized the details of her face before finally straying down her neck to her breasts. Her nipples darkened under his scrutiny, pebbling harder and aching for his touch.

"You're breathtaking," he stated, swallowing in an attempt to reclaim his voice. "Even more beautiful now that you're a mother."

She blushed, suddenly fully aware of lingering stretch marks and skin not quite as firm as it had been before it had adapted to accommodate new life. Yet her nerves hummed at his declaration, making her feel totally and completely alive.

"Because my breasts are fuller?" she teased, her cheeks heating as he tipped her chin upwards.

"Because those breasts feed our son," he whispered, clearing the thickness from his throat. "Because your body took care of him even when I wasn't there to support you. Because you chose to bear and raise a child alone rather than giving him up to save your reputation." Her chin quivered as a well of pressure built up behind her eyelids, and she drew in a long breath through her nose,   
breathing out through her mouth as her palm slid down to cup her stomach. "I mean it, Mary," he affirmed. His hand strayed up her waistline, stopping just shy of her ribs, his thumb tracing soft lines along the planes of her stomach. "You've never been more beautiful than you are right now."

"I have marks," she stated, her voice clumsy and difficult.

"So do I," he breathed, and she smiled then, the motion releasing a tear determined to escape. She touched his face, past hurts mending within her depths that unleashed a warmth coating her insides like honey. "And I love you."

She nodded, tried to breathe, tried to keep herself from floating off of the bed in a rush of emotion she never believed she would feel again. He was looking at her, wanting her, offering all of himself up to her, scarred and bruised as he was, and she wanted him—all of him, the beautiful and the broken.

He was holding back—still uncertain—still afraid of scaring her off. But she needed him as much as he needed her, and she drew a shaky breath as that realization settled over her fully.  
She took his hand with her own, his hot and quivering, hers steady and sure, and she drew it slowly to her breast, laying it directly on the swell of her, his reaction to the contact every bit as strong as her own. Darts flew everywhere, radiating from her naval outward in a shower of sparks, and she trembled his arms, commanding his attention. She heard him swallow just before his thumb dared a stroke over her nipple, and she sighed huskily at the sensations swirling in her belly, bracing herself with one arm on his shoulder.

"Don't stop," she instructed, her tongue almost too thick for speech. She felt his nod, sensed the atmosphere between them shift, and prepared herself for something both familiar and unknown.  
He caressed her again, then again, and she began to writhe against him slowly as he took up a legato rhythm, making her arch against his touch as her head rolled slowly back. This was rich and alarming, something she longed for yet feared to her core. Yet gentle touches began to sway any misgivings that remained, making them march to his tune as she allowed all of who he was to envelop her fully. Then he squeezed her, just so, and she gasped, pressing his hand more firmly to her nipple with her own in both surprise and need, her hair cascading over them as she leaned down to claim his mouth. This kiss was different, harder, a kiss of stirring passions and electricity that was going as far as they could take it. He pinched lightly, and she moaned into his mouth, his breathing now a pant as her hips rocked steadily.

"Oh, God," he uttered as she raised herself up, her breasts now hovering just over his mouth. She stared down at him, urging him wordlessly as his thumb traced the edge of her swell, seeing both wonder and want in his face as he breathed on sensitized flesh. He rubbed her nipple with his chin then with his lips before gently taking her into his mouth, unleashing a sensation she had never experienced to its fullest. So much quivered under his tongue, things sharp and dull, throbbing and steady, bright and subdued, and she let herself drift away on them, riding a wave that had never crested as it should have in the past. She shuddered at the light sucking, at the feel of his tongue laving and circling her, and at the sensation of his other hand drifting downwards, cupping her buttock to keep her steady.

All of this at the hands and mouth of her husband. Her eyes welled up again before she could stop them.

"Are you alright?" he questioned, looking up at her in concern. "I'll stop if you want…"

"No," she interrupted, cupping his face with her hands. "No. It's not that at all." She felt him stiffen, sensed his disbelief. But he kissed the top side of her breast, drawing her close to him and stroking her hair.

"What is it then?" he asked her. "I mean, I know our last time together—" He broke off and swallowed audibly. "When we were together, and when you were with Pamuk, things didn't exactly end well for you. And if doing this brings up bad memories…" His sentence trailed off into a labored sigh, his nose coming to rest lightly on her ribs. She threaded her fingers in his hair, drawing his gaze back to hers, kissing him lightly. His back heaved with weighted breathing, regret intruding where she wanted it least of all.

"Matthew," she tried, words sticking in her throat, words that were easy to conjure yet difficult to form. "I won't lie and say I'm not nervous being with you right now. But…"  
This time it was she who couldn't finish, and she kissed his temple instead. "What happened with you was painful," she whispered. "When you left, I mean. We both know that."  
He nodded mutely, and she held him closer, refusing to let him submerge into the sinkhole of what could never be undone. "And when Kemal died inside of me…"

Her eyes sealed shut at the memory of lifeless weight falling on her frame, of confusion and fear at why he wouldn't respond, of near the hysteria that latched on to her when she realized he wasn't breathing.

"I didn't know what to do."

He pulled her closer, drawing a blanket over her back, making her feel somewhat protected from her own memories, memories of half-suffocating, of blind panic, of wiping blood from her thighs with arms that shook, of prodding him—praying he would stir or breathe, of wondering if she had done something inadvertently that stopped his heart.

"How could you?" he responded. "I don't know if anyone would know what to do in those circumstances. And for it to have been your first time…" She nodded, biting her lower lip as she looked at him fully, absorbing the present as an antidote for her past. "I'm not certain how you were able to think clearly at all."

"I didn't," she stated with a slight shrug. "Half of that night is a complete blur, and the other half…" She paused, swallowing, pushing down images and sensations she wished she could bury alongside a long-dead corpse. "It hurt like hell, you know."

He leaned in, his face wearing no expression but that of concern, and he traced her cheek bone, allowing her to settle into his chest.

"I knew it was supposed to be uncomfortable, but I didn't realize, really." Her cheeks stung at the admission.

"Did he—" he coughed and cleared his throat. "Did he take any care with you? Any at all? Knowing you hadn't been with a man?"

"I don't think so," she stated, her brows creeping upwards. "Not really. But he wasn't purposefully rough or cruel, just…just not really concerned with what I was feeling, I think."  
She watched as he flinched, felt his palm clench and reopen in her hair.

"You deserve better, Mary," he stated, his voice mirroring a steep and rough terrain. "From him. From me. God, especially from me."

A familiar coldness wrapped around her heart, and she reached out to him against its icy pull, tugging herself decidedly back in his direction.

"You've already given me better," she whispered. "Christopher. Our marriage. And…and this."

He coughed nervously, his eyes staring down at his lap.

"I can't—I mean…"  
Her limbs suddenly felt frozen in time.

"I wish I were a whole man for you," he managed, his eyes shifting. "I hate that the one time I could have made love to you properly I acted like a complete ass and walked out." He bit his lower lip, his upper body trembling, and she felt his leg twitch beneath her—barely, but there had been movement. "I robbed both of us that day, Mary, but especially you."

"Matthew," she began, seeking words flying around her head like a flock of bothersome gnats. "We—we can't do anything to change our pasts. I've accepted that finally, and you have to, as well. Hanging on to our mistakes—constantly berating ourselves over what we've done wrong—it only brings us more pain, and I for one think we've endured enough. Don't you?"

A puff of air brushed her cheek, and she raised herself slightly to allow him to adjust his position. His eyes were clear, moist, and full of more emotion than a person should be forced to bear. She then sat up then, gazing back at him with a determination burning brighter as they spoke.

"I do," he whispered, a declaration she felt everywhere at once. "You're right. About all of this. I just wish…well. You know what I wish."

He leaned forward and kissed her, a touch, a promise, laced with the indiscernible hint of something more beautiful than she could fathom. This was her wedding moment, she thought to herself, the moment when she truly would become Matthew's wife and he her husband. Not out of obligation or necessity, not to save face or to protect their son. But because she loved him, she wanted him, and she feared being naked with him no more.

"You deserve all the happiness this life can possibly give you, Mary," he added, cupping her cheek in his palm. "And I want to give it to you—to you and to Christopher, and to…" He stopped, his brow creasing uncomfortably.

"What is it?" she questioned. His thumb rested on her face, his gaze holding hers in a trance.

"I was about to say to any other children we may have," he admitted with a slight cough. Her heart squeezed in time with his, her insides quivering with the need to soothe his spirit.

"Who says that we won't?" she asked. "You're already seeing improvements, and Dr. Meadows said that you could recover fully."

"But there's no guarantee," he amended. "Even if, well, even if I'm able to…to become erect again, well, who knows if that would grant me the ability to father more children."

She nearly blushed at his directness, but her lip twitched upward in spite of herself. His ears were heating, she knew it, and she rubbed their tops playfully, eliciting a lopsided grin from him, as well. She kissed his temple, his forehead, and then his mouth before drawing back and staring at him fully.

"We have a son, Matthew," she reminded him. "Even if we have no other children, we have Christopher."

He smiled then, genuinely smiled, leaning forward to kiss the tip of her nose in a manner that somehow made her feel younger.

"And he's perfect," Matthew grinned. "Too wonderful for words, actually."

She was nodding before she realized it, rubbing his arms as she leaned in closer.

"He is. And he's enough."

He allowed her words to settle, the process playing out across his face, and he nodded—once, then twice, swallowing and taking her hand.

"He's more than enough," he uttered before bringing it to his mouth and kissing her palm. Her legs rocked at the contact, her thighs tingling just so as pinpricks of light dotted her nerve endings like a meadow teeming with fireflies.

"So are you," she whispered, her lips hovering just over his, her nose edging his softly before rubbing against his cheek. "Don't let yourself think otherwise."

His mouth then progressed to her wrist, up the underside of her arm, and he stopped and breathed on her before tasting the crook of her arm, making her arch and bite her lower lip.

"You like that?" he asked, watching her closely without releasing her elbow. She nodded, her tongue suddenly thick and too clumsy for speech, and she heard him make an appreciative noise as his teeth nipped her there before his mouth soothed her skin. Some sort of sound leaped out of her chest, then her mouth was back on his, taking what she needed as her hands clung to his scalp.  
Her hands sought his body, instinct taking command of nerves and uncertainty. She undid the next button of his pajama top, and then the next, working her way down his torso, allowing her nails to   
graze skin she knew felt her touch.

"You are a whole man, you know," she finally whispered into his mouth, sliding her hands over his shoulders under the fabric, easing the shirt down his arms and off his body until it pooled beneath him on the bed. He leaned back, looking half-shell-shocked and more than half-aroused, and she leaned into his chest, kissing just above his nipple, working her mouth from one corner of his rib cage to the other. "You're my husband. And I think it was time you were also my lover again." The word caressed her tongue and made her feel deliciously wanton.

"Mary," he gasped, and she felt his skin heat beneath her lips as she circled his tender peak. "Oh, oh God."

She'd forgotten the taste of a man—the saltiness of bare skin, the muskiness of pent-up desire, the scent of need that had struck her soundly as she kissed her way towards his naval. She memorized his textures, the tickle of his hairs against her tongue, the edge of a small scar near his hipbone shaped like a crescent moon.  
Then she was hoisted back to his mouth with a strength that took her by surprise, his arms clasping on to her as if she were his lifeline, his mouth devouring her as if she were his last meal. Tongues dueled and danced, then he burned a wet trail down her neck straight to her breast, feasting on her left nipple as his fingers toyed with her right.

"Matthew," she gasped, losing herself in this impromptu storm, pressing her fingers into his scalp to keep her grounded. She was rocking against his leg, she gradually realized, freezing and clenching her thighs as his teeth nipped her breast unexpectedly. She tugged his head to her other nipple as his palm covered the one now wet. She pressed down on his leg, claiming the friction against coarse cotton that she sought, unconcerned about the dampness she was most certainly leaving on his pajama pants.

"Take them off," he muttered, his voice nearly an octave lower. "I know I can't feel you there, but I want you on me, not…"

He didn't have to finish—she was nodding and sliding his pants down his legs before he could complete a coherent sentence. Her hands trembled a bit, touching his bare skin in such an intimate manner, even in areas she was certain he couldn't feel. Getting them past his hips was tricky, but he pushed himself from one side to the other to assist her, and she kissed his legs instinctively on her way down, noting an expression on his face she couldn't quite make out as she crawled her way back up his nearly bare thighs.

"You're trying to kill me, aren't you?" he muttered, and she eyed him heavily, leaning down and nipping him just over his naval. He jerked under her mouth, his body convulsing again as she ran her finger across his waistline.

"You're sensitive here," she observed, feeling his skin grow all the more heated as she continued to trace patterns on his stomach.

"More than I realized," he confessed. "God, I feel like I'm actually aroused."

She eyed him then, sitting up and clasping the waistband of his undergarments.

"That's good," she mused, twirling her nail around the dent in his stomach, enjoying the low hiss emerging through his teeth. "It's a sign of progress, don't you think?"

His eyes bore into hers, and she watched his Adam's apple moved decisively.

"I hope so," he confessed. "God, I hope so."

Her nail continued its journey south, moving beneath his undergarments in attempt to discern the exact point sensation stopped for him. There—just below his naval, above his hair, and she purposely returned her touch to where she knew it affected him, shivering at the intensity staring back at her.

"Can I remove these, too?" She tugged on the waistband of his undergarment, watching his face carefully as she leaned in for a light kiss. His cheek muscles twitched, and he stared back at her, shame and want meeting her head on. But he nodded, and she reached out for his cheek, this touch somehow more erotic than any they had shared thus far. "I'll be careful," she breathed as her hands began their work.

"Why?" he questioned. "It's not as if you can damage anything."

Her eyes flew to his, and she was stunned to see he was grinning.

"I still consider this valuable property," she returned, making him chuckle. She smiled then, fully, everywhere, and he pulled her close for a kiss, the kiss of a man in love with his wife.

"I'm glad someone does," he quipped, and she shot him an upturned brow. Her fingers then tugged, her eyes never leaving his as she bared his lower body, wondering at all he was feeling as she uncovered what carried no sensation. His undergarments were tossed to the floor, and she glanced at him, refusing to allow him to experience one moment of shame. She moved up his torso quickly, kissing him hard on the mouth, moving her touch to his waist, enjoying the groan he poured into her as he kissed her back with force.

"You are trying to kill me," he murmured decadently. "There's no question now."

She chuckled under her breath, dropping her mouth to his neck before she answered.

"Then why ask in the first place?"

He pulled her back to his mouth with one tug, grinning deliciously as he did so, and she felt the muscles in his arms flexing around her, firm and strong, toned from supporting his upper body on a regular basis.

"Because I can't help myself," he hummed as his lips danced across hers. Then his hands were all over her at once, one clasping her breast, the other clenching her bottom, and she arched into his touch, her lips tearing free from his as her head tossed back instinctively. His mouth moved to her free nipple, working it over with zeal, making her rock against him yet again at an insistent tempo. But he stopped her this time, holding her body steady while fingers trailed a determined path from her breast to her thigh. His touch grazed her skin, and her breath caught in her throat, a whimper all that emerged as his hand moved inward.

"Is this alright?" his question barely more than a panted plea onto her chest. "Touching you…there?"

Her pulse throbbed in her cheeks, behind her eyes, in her temples, a powerful ache forming between her legs as her skin overheated all at once. She nodded, grabbing his face and claiming his mouth as she pushed herself up on her knees, granting him better access. His fingers moved to her thatch of hair, caressing, teasing, making her legs feel like jelly and her thighs like burning shards. Then he made contact, lightly, just so, and she jumped as a small cry escaped her and her legs clenched closer together.

"Matthew," she voiced, her arms reaching for the back of his head, needing support, needing more of him. "God, don't stop. Please."

She rested her forehead on his, breathing heavily, tense with anticipation. Nerves jerked haphazardly as his fingers stroked her hip, slowly seeking her yet again, inciting another electric charge, but one she could manage to absorb without her body jumping sporadically. She lowered herself back to his hand, on to his caress, begging him to continue with a gaze he read perfectly. She was damp,   
wet, actually, and his fingers found a spot that forced her to bite her lower lip.

"Good?" he questioned, continuing his delicate dance.

"Uhmmm…" she hummed. Stars formed behind shut lids, and he pressed a bit firmer, instigating a circular dance by her hips he seemed to enjoy as much as she.

"Tell me if it hurts," he whispered, just as a finger slid inside of her and her mind nearly exploded. Her jaw fell open as he began to move, his other hand finding her nipple and squeezing it until she moaned. The stimulation was too much, too glorious, and she began to ride him, feeling something tense and hot begin to unfurl in her belly. Was this what it was supposed to be like, she wondered, this cresting higher and higher until lights were spinning in your head and nothing mattered except…except…

Another finger was in her now, his mouth capturing her other nipple, and her body was clenching so tightly she couldn't think. Her eyes squeezed shut, her legs beginning to ache from the rocking, but she didn't care. She needed this…now….here…oh…

Her body convulsed, once, twice, repeatedly, her brain bursting into a million pieces, and she cried out again, gripping him hard, riding a wave that thrilled her as it tugged her under repeatedly. She crashed on to the shore, throbbing, feeling, tensing and releasing over and over again until calm waters began to return and lap against her skin. He kept stroking until it was truly too much, and she grabbed his hand, making him stop, kissing him lightly, panting on to his skin. He was sweating, she realized, breathing heavily, and she looked into eyes hooded and sated.

"I felt it, too," he breathed, and the air caught in her lungs. "Not like you, not physically, exactly, but…" He drew one of her fingers into his mouth, kissing her knuckle. "But it happened. I'm not sure I can explain it. But…"

Euphoria swept over her, and she smiled until her cheeks ached.

"Then don't," she reasoned. His mouth turned upwards, squeezing her heart even tighter. It hit her then, out of nowhere, making her mind spin and her heart flutter. She was happy. Here. In this marriage. In this house. In this bed. With this man.

Then they laughed. It was the most glorious moment of her life.

Months of agony and tension poured out of them both, this release just as intense as the one she had experienced just moments ago. She dropped her head to his shoulder, allowing his laughter to vibrate through her bones, feeling lighter than she had since attending the local fair with Carson when she was ten years old. This, she thought to herself, this here and now, this was everything.

This was life.

She melted into him, her limbs liquid, her mind a decadent blur. He reclined into the pillows, supporting them as best he could as he eased them on to the mattress, gathering her to his ribs.

"I love you, Mary."  
She hadn't realized she was crying until he wiped her cheek, and she sniffed it back as best she could, wiping her nose even though it didn't do one bit of good. Her face was a blotchy mess, she was certain of it, but she didn't care one whit.

"I love you, too."

His own tears fell then, gentle, yet insistent, and they held each other through them, knowing everything had changed even as the future remained unclear. He kissed her forehead, and she draped her arm across his chest, claiming and accepting him for all of who he was, allowing him to claim her as his own.

Matthew. Her husband. The father of her child.

And now finally, her lover.


	17. Chapter 17

He stretched his arms and back, relishing the sensation of muscles elongating as Mary stirred beside him, her eyes still closed in sleep, the rise and fall of her chest steady and even. The blankets had pooled at their waists sometime during the night, exposing her breasts to his perusal, and he blinked his eyes decidedly, taking in the vision that was his wife.

She was perfect. Absolutely perfect.

The phantom sensation of soft kisses on bare flesh made him smile to himself, and he allowed his memory to linger on the night's activities that had left her hair in such a disheveled state and him a sweaty mess. Her breasts were full now, he noticed, ready for relief, her nipples somewhat engorged and darker than normal in hue. It was then he spied the pinpricks of gooseflesh on her arms, realizing with a pang of regret that she was chilled. Well, he couldn't have that, now could he, so he maneuvered himself closer, attempting to tug the quilts over her chest and arms without waking her. He indulged in one last glance before covering what should be a crime to hide, marble skin, soft curves, the contrast of black and ivory that made up her stunning natural landscape. She snuggled deeper into her pillow, her face relaxing an extra measure as she sighed into the sheets.

God, how he loved her. The force of it was nearly painful.

He swallowed hard, his mind trying to catch up with this new reality they'd been living the past two weeks, learning each other's bodies, gauging reactions, savoring tastes and textures, treasuring an intimacy that had forged itself under far less than ideal circumstances. He remembered the feel of her surrounding his fingers, of her womanhood pressing against his palm, her fingers digging into his shoulders until her nails nearly broke skin. Sweat beaded his forehead as his neck and face grew hot, and he inhaled the cool air of the bedroom, taken aback by the strength of his arousal this early in the morning.

Or what felt ridiculously like a true arousal. He stared down at his lower body, lying useless and limp under the sheet-the sheet that was sticking up just slightly just where it shouldn't.

Wait—what was this?His eyes rounded to double their normal size.

"It can't be," he whispered to himself, pulling back the sheet so quickly he was surprised he didn't wake her. But he was most certainly awake now, looking down on what had been lifeless for months now showing the initial signs of life. His hand moved down, hovering, almost afraid to touch lest he undo this unexpected miracle. But he had to know, and he lowered his fingers, gripping what was growing solid over heated thoughts of his wife.

"Oh, God," he breathed, nearly laughing, nearly crying, shaking with excitement mixed with terror, fearing this might all be a dream. He'd certainly dreamed of making love to Mary properly more nights than he could count, of losing himself inside of her, of making her cry out his name as she shuddered around him. But this was different, and his arm began to tremble as he breathed in and out, wiggling his toes, muttering a silent prayer that this wasn't a passing fancy or some sort of cruel divine joke.

"What is it?" She gazed at him bleary-eyed, her face still resting on the pillow as her hand found his arm. He let the sheet fall gently back over his torso, and he met her eyes directly. "Matthew, are you alright?"

"Yes," he managed, trying his best to appear calm, fully aware of the fact that he was failing miserably. "I'm fine—it's just…"

A wail from the adjoining room cut him off, and she pressed herself up on her elbows, looking at the door cracked open just enough.

"What time is it?" she asked as she slid out of the bed and drew her silken robe around her, the sun breaking through the window clearly catching her off-guard. He leaned over to the clock at their bedside table, moving close and squinting to see it clearly.

"Nearly eight," he replied, almost laughing at his wife's utterly shocked expression staring back at him. "Why?"

"He slept all night," Mary gasped. She was already moving to the baby's room, but she paused at the doorway and stared back at him. "Christopher. It's the first time." She clutched the corner of her robe out of habit, shaking her head in amazement before disappearing into the nursery. He smiled at the place where she'd just stood, not daring to look at or touch his lower body until she was well out of sight.

Yes. It was still there, whispering into his subconscious that he was still a man in the one way that had been eluding him for months. A chuckle rumbled up from his chest before he'd realized what had happened.

"Don't laugh," Mary instructed as she carried Christopher back into their bedroom, snuggling into the oversized chair near the window. "He's clearly starving now." She adjusted their son on her right side, cupping his head as she tugged her breast free from her robe and whispered into what little hair he had. "You let Mama sleep last night, my love. I'm so proud."

Christopher latched on with gusto, and Matthew pushed his frame up fully, unable to keep himself from watching a sight he was certain would never grow old. Yet her exposed breast was doing things to him it shouldn't while she was nursing their child, and he sealed his eyes shut as his head fell back to the bed frame, trying to visualize anything but Mary, anything besides her glorious breasts, her perfect derriere, the salty and sweet taste of her mouth and skin, the wetness between her legs that made breathing an effort...

Damn it. What will-power he possessed had obviously fled the premises hours ago.

"You're flushed," she observed, her brows knitting together in concern as she gazed at her husband. "Should I call for Dr. Meadows?"

"No," he began. "It's nothing to worry about, it's just…" He paused, wondering if he actually should have her send for the good doctor. He wouldn't mind the man's opinion concerning the stirrings he was experiencing, yet he hated to create a fuss and perhaps raise his wife's hopes over what could amount to nothing. He couldn't bear to disappoint her again.

"Tell me," Mary insisted, her eyes now set. "No secrets, Matthew. We promised each other…"

"I know," he interrupted, pushing his body up to a full sitting position and adjusting his pillow against the headboard. "And nothing is wrong, my darling, I promise."

"Then why are you being so secretive?" she questioned as she flipped her half-fallen plait over her shoulder. He sighed as her brows rose into her scalp. "You're hiding something from me, and it's starting to make me uneasy."

"Because I don't want to give you false hope," he confessed, his eyes dropping to his lap. "It could be nothing."

She stared at him hard, leaning forward a bit, cradling Christopher's head as she moved.

"False hope concerning what?" she inquired. "Have you felt something? Your legs?"

His lips twitched, his gaze locking with hers.

"Not my legs, per say," he admitted with a shrug. God, why was this so difficult to say? "I woke up, well…" He paused to clear his throat, rubbing the back of his now heated neck. "Aroused."

She looked dumbstruck, her lips moving silently until realization played across her features.

"You mean," she began, sitting up taller. "You're, you were…"

"Erect," he filled in, wondering if he was as red-faced as he felt. "At least, somewhat erect." Her mouth hung open, her stare unblinking as she sat in temporary silence.

"You're not joking," she finally muttered in what was barely more than a whisper. "Are you?"

"No," he assured her, unable to tell if her lips trembled from shock or out and out fear. He'd wondered if part of the comfort they'd reached together had sprung from the fact that he couldn't enter her body as he had in the cabin-the day that he'd left her, the day his child came together in her womb. He cringed as he always did when he dwelled on his behavior, the loss of sensation in his groin akin to the feeling of ice water being injected into his thighs. "It's not much," he returned. "Not a full arousal by any means, but…" He watched her for a reaction.

"It's a lot, Matthew," she argued, shaking her head again. "It's everything."

Eyes locked, words were lost, and they simply sat there for seconds, the ticking of the bedside clock and Christopher's ministrations the only sounds in the room. He was hot all over, and he watched her swallow, her eyes blinking far more rapidly than usual.

"Dear God," she uttered as she leaned back into the arm chair. "Has this happened before?"

"No," he answered, wishing the burn in his cheeks would go away. "I mean, I've certainly felt aroused when we're together, but my body hasn't shown any signs of life."

"Until now," she murmured, gently switching Christopher to her other breast.

"Until now," he confirmed. She smiled then, the faint glistening in her eyes reducing him to rubble in a second. Tears followed, mixed with laughter and smiles, and they wiped their cheeks with sheets and robes, propriety forgotten as life so brilliantly intervened.

"We should send for Doctor Meadows," Mary stated, biting her lower lip. "It would be good to get his opinion and to let him examine your spine." Matthew nodded in agreement, hoisting himself to a taller sitting position with the bars and handles added to their bed. "Besides, your mother is supposed to arrive today, and I'm fairly certain he'd like to see her."

His fingers traced his scalp, scratching a rather irksome itch that hit him out of nowhere.

"And what has she to do with Doctor Meadows?" Matthew questioned, clearly not following his wife's train of thought.

"I believe he may be rather sweet on her," Mary shrugged. He swallowed incorrectly and choked himself, coughing so loudly as to startle the baby and make his wife somewhat cross.

"Doctor Meadows?" he managed, pounding his own fist against his rib cage as she bounced Christopher on her knee in an attempt to sooth him. "Interested in my mother?"

"Why not?" she questioned, settling her son back to her breast, tossing her husband one last glare for good measure. "He's a doctor, she's a nurse…"

"They hardly know one another," he interjected with a roll of his eyes. "They've only met—"

"They've met several times," Mary cut in, her expression giving him little room to argue. He stared back at her in question, prodding her with his eyes until she relented with a sigh. "When your mother was staying with me right after Christopher was born, well…" She paused, knowing that discussing that period of time was still rather tender for them both. "They were thrown together—quite a bit, you see. Seeing to both me and Christopher, trying to bolster my spirits and make certain I slept and ate well. I believe they spoke frequently, even after I would retire to rest."

He couldn't look at her for a moment, remembering how much thinner she'd been but weeks ago, how the now healthy glow to her skin had been pale and chalky when he'd first taken her as his wife.

"They took care of you," he uttered, forcing himself to meet her gaze, no matter how ashamed of himself he still felt. "When it should have been me doing that."

She exhaled audibly, her shoulders dropping on cue.

"You couldn't have, even if you'd wanted to, Matthew," she argued. "You'd just been injured, if you remember." He smiled ruefully, clutching legs that he couldn't feel, feeling things too deep to voice.

"How could I forget?" he breathed. He wished he could call the words back immediately, her audible sigh making him feel worse than he already did. "I'm sorry, Mary. I didn't mean—"

"No more apologies over this," she interrupted. "We've covered this ground many times over."

"I know," he stated, his own chest deflating. "And I agree." His mind was reeling in too many directions at once—his legs, his mother, whether or not he'd ever be able to properly make love to his wife. "I just wonder, sometimes."

Her brow creased, and she leaned forward as far as she was able.

"You wonder what?"

Her question hovered between them, an air of heaviness in a room rimmed with light. He inhaled sharply, looking into her eyes before clearing his throat.

"If I'll ever be able to forgive myself—fully."

The weight in her eyes spoke to him from where she sat, and she gazed meaningfully down at Christopher, kissing the child's forehead.

"I have," she breathed, her tone hushed yet steady. "So what's stopping you?"

"You know what," he murmured, the dark hole in his heart expanding exponentially. Invisible talons wrapped around his lungs, pressing down, sucking out life, carrying with them a familiar despondency he both knew intimately and despised.

"I'm not sure I do," she countered, sitting up tall and straight. "You have my forgiveness, as well as your mother's. You also have a son and a wife who…" She paused, taking Christopher from her breast and laying him on her chest, rubbing his back as she stood and padded her way towards the bed. She didn't stop until she stood beside him, wisps of dark hair framing her face like some sort of sacred Madonna. "A wife who loves you," she breathed, the soft scent of mother's milk and warm baby engulfing his senses, melting his heart as instantly as if she'd buried it in molten lava.

He reached up to caress her arm, and she gave him a rare, pure smile, her face more alight and carefree than he'd ever seen it. Her skin was cool under his fingers, but softer than Christopher's blanket, bearing the texture of fine silk woven with humanity. He was completely lost to her—in every way possible—drowning in this woman who possessed him body and soul.

"I don't deserve you," he whispered, his voice husky and raw. She shook her head, laughing as Christopher pushed himself back from her chest in an attempt to look at his father. Matthew reached out his arms to the boy, and he nearly launched himself from one parent to the other, taking Matthew by surprise and making them both laugh softly.

"Well, you've got us," she returned with a nod in Christopher's direction. "Like it or not." He tossed her a look of incredulity, adoring how she bit her bottom lip.

"Thank God," he smiled, kissing Christopher just before the boy touched his cheeks, pudgy fists and fingers studying his face with an infant's curiosity. "I can't imagine life without the two of you."

Mary walked around the end of the bed and reclaimed her position by his side, and they laid back on soft pillows, holding their child and each other, glancing from the clock to the window every so often. Minutes ticked by as Christopher played with his father's nose, and they propped him up on pillows, cooing at every small gesture and expression.

"We do have to get out of bed," Mary finally mused, flinging her plait over her shoulder just before it was confiscated by pudgy hand. "We need to get dressed before Mrs. Jacobs barges in to make certain we're still alive." He chuckled under his breath, eliciting a giggle from his son that made them both pause and grin. Matthew hoisted the boy up over his face, nuzzling his nose into Christopher's belly and making the baby squeal in delight.

"Don't complain to me if he spits up his breakfast all over you," Mary insisted, earning herself a quirked brow.

"His breakfast settled some time ago, I daresay," Matthew countered, watching as the child waved his arms up and down. "Again, Christopher?"

"Don't say I didn't warn you," Mary returned as she slid out of her side of the bed and moved to her vanity. "If you smell like sour milk when your mother arrives, don't blame me."

"I'm certain she's smelled far worse," he retorted with a grin, laughing with his son as the games between them continued. "Hospitals aren't exactly often confused for rose gardens."

"Neither are stubborn fathers," she quipped, re-tying the sash of her robe before taking down her plait and taking up her brush. He loved watching her brush her hair, seeing it free and unbound, wild and more glorious than any man-made work of art. She stopped at a particularly difficult tangle, working it though before sighing in frustration. "There are days I just want to cut it off, you know."  
He held Christopher in mid-lift, moving the boy to the side to see her better.

"You're not talking about your hair, I hope."

His throat was thick, and he gazed at her ebony mane now cascading down her back, hair he could get lost in, hair that framed them like a waterfall whenever she straddled him in bed.

"Of course I'm talking about my hair," she retorted, turning on her bench to face him fully. "What else would I threaten to cut off?"

He made a face, peering over his son towards his nether regions, eliciting an out and out cackle from her that caught Christopher's attention.

"Don't flatter yourself," she quipped, tossing him a playful grin before turning back to the mirror. "Besides, I'm rather anxious to see just how large that thing can grow."

"Why Lady Mary," he returned with feigned offense. "What would your grandmother say if she could hear you now?"

"Granny?" Mary asked, flicking her brows upwards. "I daresay she's said worse in her day."

He chuckled, bouncing Christopher on his chest.

"I daresay you're right," he agreed, looking down at his groin before returning his gaze to her. "I wonder, though, I mean…" The words were sticking in his throat again, embarrassment heating his skin until it he nearly broke out into a sweat.

"I think we're both wondering a lot of things right now," she sighed, continuing to brush in long stokes. "Which is why we should get dressed and send for Doctor Meadows as soon as possible. He may be able to give us some idea of what we can expect."

"You're right," he agreed, pulling Christopher up to stand on his chest aloft wobbly legs. "Of course, you're right." He gazed into brown eyes the boy had inherited from his mother before kissing the top of his forehead, nuzzling dry lips against softer than soft skin. "Who knows?" he mused, both trepidation and excitement coursing through him with unrestrained ferocity. "Perhaps we shall teach each other how to walk, Christopher Joseph."

The look she gave him was on he wished he could sketch.

"Perhaps you shall."

They dressed and ate a late breakfast, Matthew pacifying Mrs. Jacob's laments concerning cold eggs and tepid coffee with aplomb, making over the food as if it were a veritable feast. Mary rolled her eyes at the kitchen theatrics, leaning forward conspiratorially as Mrs. Jacobs left the room.

  
"Stop encouraging her," Mary insisted. "Or every meal will take on the importance and drama of a Shakespearean tragedy."

  
"She's in charge of Christmas dinner," Matthew reminded her, leaning forward as best as he could. "And I for one would like to keep her in good spirits since she's willing to come here and cook for us on a holiday."

  
"We're paying her to cook for us on said holiday," Mary reminded him before indulging in another bite of her eggs. "Mama sent funds that include a sizable bonus for her."  
"A well-deserved bonus," Matthew added, receiving a flicked brow in agreement. "Has your mother decided when she'll be able to come for a visit?" Mary set down her fork, taking a sip of her tea before her hands literally dropped into her lap.

  
"She's not certain," she began, her eyes flitting between her plate and his face. "She'd hoped to come before Christmas, but since that hasn't happened, she's aiming for an extended visit in mid-January." He nodded, watching her face carefully.

  
"Still no word from Robert?"

She swallowed then, and he wished with everything he had that he could retrieve the question.

"None," she breathed, shrugging in an attempt to make light of what hurt deeply. "Mama relates all of the goings on to me, of course, and Granny sends her letters."

"Her bi-weekly epistles, you mean," he grinned, managing to elicit a whisper of a smile across her lips. "I have to pour myself a brandy before settling in to read them."

"At least she's thorough," Mary sighed. "I'm not certain you've seen the one that arrived in yesterday's post."

His brow rose in curiosity, wondering why she hadn't passed the letter to him the moment she finished devouring its contents as was their habit.

"I don't suppose you'd like to summarize it for me?" he quipped, earning himself a rather amusing eye roll from his wife. "Save me an hour or two of time this afternoon?"

"Nothing surprising," she answered, her tone letting him know she was tip-toeing around something. "The usual town gossip, complaints about the servants…" She trailed off, her gaze meeting his as she took a fortifying breath. "And she's determined to have Christopher officially accepted and acknowledged as your heir."

His coffee paused half-way down his throat, nearly scalding him and making him choke.

"That's hardly surprising," he mused, wishing he control his automatic bodily response to such news with more aplomb. "She's been of that mindset since she learned of his existence."

"I know," Mary acquiesced. "But she's taken on quite the letter-writing campaign, it would seem. Calling in old favors, throwing her title around, requesting private audiences with all the right people." Her expression went blank for a moment, her eyes retreating until she met his across the table. "I have a feeling the Prime Minister himself will be hearing from her in the near future if she doesn't get her way."

"He'll lose," Matthew quipped, swallowing back a bitter taste in his mouth. "No man in his right mind would fight Violet Crawley over a matter concerning her family or Downton." She smiled but grew quiet again, and she pressed her cup to her lips, her mind clearly eons away from their small dining table. "What is it, Mary?" he questioned, reaching his hand out to cover hers. "Are you thinking of Downton?"

His question hovered over their plates, and she took a deep breath, her lips pressing together in a gesture he'd come to know well.

"I wouldn't worry over Christopher's inheritance yet," he continued, rubbing a finger over her knuckles. "I have great faith in your grandmother's powers of persuasion." She hummed in agreement, blinking a few times too many.

"It's not Granny who concerns me," she began. "Believe me, I know what she's like when she sets her mind to something, and heaven help the mortals who dare stand in her way." She paused, the muscle movement in her arm convincing him that she was squeezing the napkin in her lap under the table.

"Then what is it?" he pursued, cocking his head slightly to one side. "Robert's lack of communication?" Her eyebrows spoke for her before she licked her lips.

"I miss him," she confessed. Had her chin just trembled as the words fell from her lips, her complexion a shade lighter than he liked to see it? "But…it's not that. Not really." She cut herself off again, sitting up taller in an attempt to summon her courage. "It's just that I'm not sure I want it anymore, Matthew. Downton, that is."

He couldn't have been more shocked had the sky parted and winged horses emerged.

"I know what you're thinking," she noted, her tone somewhat muted.

"I'm glad," he returned, pausing to clear his throat. "Because I have no idea." She laughed then, a sound he welcomed even as his heart sped ahead of him by at least twenty paces.

"When I was last there with Christopher," she managed, taking a sip of her coffee. "When we came to see you, it…it didn't feel like home anymore."

His skin went cold as he remembered their meeting, how she'd looked standing in the doorway holding their child, so pale, so uncertain and frightened, so very unlike the Lady Mary he'd known, but the most courageous version of Mary he'd ever loved.

"I was an outsider," she continued, pushing through the thickness in her throat. "The fallen daughter, the girl who brought shame on her family. I've never been so uncomfortable in my life."

"I believe I'm the one to fault for that, Mary," he cut in, unwilling to let her yet again bear the brunt of an act both of them committed. Her head moved from one side to the other before she sighed.

"You're a man," she pointed out unnecessarily. "And the rules are different, as you well know." His face was hot again, even though the blood in his veins still felt the touch of frost.

"I know," he uttered, forcing himself to look her directly in the eye. "And it's wrong." She paused, staring into her cup as if it held the mysteries of the universe.

"It is," she agreed, her pupils dilating. "And there's not a damn thing we can do about that." His smile was tight, but his admiration was strong, and he gazed at his wife, shaking his head in disbelief that this astonishing woman actually loved him.

"Oh, I don't know," Matthew returned with a defiant shrug. "I actually believe that there is."

"And what is that, pray ?" He'd sparked her curiosity, her eyes flashing in that manner that never failed to excite him on more levels than he could count.

"We can live our lives without shame," he replied, straightening his spine as he continued. "We can look people in the eye and smile, regardless of how they respond to us. We can be proud of our son and make certain he never doubts how much we love him or treasure his existence." He paused, his arm twitching slightly from the impassioned nature of his declaration. "I think we are already doing these things, actually, and good for us."

She eyed him again from under her lashes, her face nearly motionless as her hand trembled under his.

"We're doing this here," she agreed. "And it's good. But it won't work at Downton. There, Christopher will always be seen as the illegitimate mistake of Lord Grantham's haughty firstborn, and I as the uppity daughter who seduced the engaged heir and got what she deserved."

He drew back quickly, feeling as if he'd been physically slapped.

"You can't really believe that, Mary," he stated, his eyes narrowing slightly. "I understand that there are many who will never be able to see beyond the mistakes of the past, but there are other who already do."

"Mama, perhaps," she returned. "Your mother, Granny, Sybil, Anna, possibly Bates. And Carson, of course." Her eyes fell to her lap again, stretching his heart painfully from where she sat. "But no one else. Not really."

"You don't know that," he countered, leaning forward as far as he was able. "You're making assumptions that could be horribly inaccurate. Look at the reception we've gotten here."

"In a small village," Mary cut in. "Where nobody knows whose daughter I am. Where they may suspect that I got pregnant before we were married, but they don't know us well enough to care. That's why I like it here, Matthew," she cried out, pulling her hand from his grasp. "That's why I don't want to leave this place and go back to certain judgment." She swallowed as hard as his heart was thudding, her chest rising and falling as if she'd just run in from the rain. "Not long ago, I thought of this house as a prison, my island of exile and eternal shame. But now…"  
He wasn't sure whose breathing was more pronounced, the pounding of his pulse in his ears loud to the point of distraction. "Now it's different," she whispered, the quiver in her chin unmistakable this time. "It's a refuge. It's safe."

"You're happy here?" he finally questioned, watching as she discreetly wiped the corner of one eye. "Here with me and Christopher? Away from your family and all the grandeur of Downton?"

Eyes locked in the silence, the creaking of roof protesting the morning wind the only sound to be heard.

"Yes. I am."

Warmth exploded in his chest, speeding across nerves and limbs until he was certain he could fly. He shouldn't be feeling so euphoric, not when his wife just confessed that she dreaded the mere thought of returning to her ancestral home. But he couldn't help it, and he was certain she was reading him like an open book.

"So am I," he whispered, his spirits buoyed even further by the radiant gleam in her dark eyes. "God, so am I."

"Who'd have thought it?" she quipped, trying to regain control of her voice even has her hand continued to shake. "The cold and calculating Lady Mary Crawley content residing in cottage near the lake?"

"The cold and calculating Lady Mary Crawley has always been a myth," he countered, watching the muscles in her face twitch almost imperceptibly. "Underneath that facade, she's always been my warm and passionate Mary, the most devoted mother in all of England."

"Perhaps you should take up writing," she returned with an attempt of lightness in her voice. "Romances are becoming all the rage, you know, and you can certainly wax poetic."

"Perhaps I shall," he chuckled. "Although I'd need a good pen name. Mother would die if it became known that her son was scripting _les liaisons dangereuses_ for public consumption." He reclaimed her hand as she shot him a grin, and they sat in companionable silence, cocooning themselves in an imperfect reality that had become their unexpected safe haven. "I don't suppose I could just give Downton back to Robert?" he asked. She laughed outright at this, and he joined her, a particularly strong gust of wind choosing that moment to rattle against the shutters. "Or perhaps I should bequeath it to Edith," he ventured, chuckling as her eyes doubled in diameter.

"God, no. Not Edith." She shook her head as if to fend off this disturbing scenario, taking another sip of her coffee. "Sybil, perhaps, although she'd probably just put everything up for auction and give all of the proceeds to worthwhile charities."

"No wonder mother adores her," he grinned, shifting in his seat as she bit her lower lip. "Perhaps Sybil can be persuaded to travel up with your mother for an overdue visit. It would be lovely to see her again."

"Perhaps," Mary whispered, her shoulder slumping somewhat. "If Papa will allow it. He may fear it would damage her chances of an acceptable marriage." Their past had caught up with them again, it would seem, always hiding in the shadows, lying in wait to ambush their happiness whenever the possibility presented itself.

"I wouldn't be surprised if your mother talked him into it," he shrugged, gratified to see her expression lighten somewhat. "She possesses a power over Robert I underestimated for far too long."

"So did I," Mary admitted, her tone once again hushed. "And I wished I hadn't." She cleared her throat and finished her coffee, setting the mug down quietly. "Speaking of mothers, what time should we expect yours?"

"Her train is supposed to arrive at half past three," Matthew replied just as Mrs. Jacobs re-entered the room.

"And Doctor Meadows?" Mary questioned as Mrs. Jacobs refilled her cup. "When will he be here?"

"He anticipates close to noon," Matthew answered. "So the timing has worked out rather nicely, I think."

"Perhaps we should ask him if he'd like to meet your mother at the station," Mary stated, watching as her husband paused with the fork half-way to his mouth. "It would save us a trip and give them the opportunity to catch up." He gazed back at her, meeting the subtle challenge in her eyes.

"I see what you're about," Matthew responded, completing his bite before speaking again. "And you might ask me before so blatantly attempting to throw my mother in the path of eligible men."

"Why?" Mary quipped. "She hardly needs your permission."

"No," Matthew agreed. "She doesn't. But neither does she need you wheedling your way in and interfering with her personal life."

"Nonsense," Mary sighed. "I don't wheedle." He shot her of look of blatant incredulity.

"You're female," he retorted. "Wheedling is in your nature."

"I'd choose my words carefully," Mary advised with a conspiratorial glance up at Mrs. Jacobs. "You are outnumbered here, you know."

"Believe me," he stated flatly. "I'm very mindful of that fact." His leg shifted then, just as Mrs. Jacobs made a silent exit, a sharp ping of sensation making his breath hitch in wonder.

"You felt something," Mary stated, leaning forward in her chair, her tone suddenly breathless. "Didn't you?"

He smiled, blinking repeatedly in absolute amazement.

"Yes," he confessed as he attempted to recreate the feeling to no avail. "My right leg—near my ankle."

Her expression brightened despite the gust of wind pounding against the glass, and she squeezed his hand, biting her lower lip.

"It's happening," she breathed, unable to take her eyes from his. "What we were afraid to believe could transpire. Dear God, Matthew." He swallowed past the thickness in his throat, caressing the top of her hand with his thumb, wishing he could pull her on to his lap and kiss the hell out of her, Mrs. Jacobs be damned. "Who'd have thought it?" she questioned, appearing almost girlish in her state of wonder.

"Who indeed?" he echoed with a broad smile, unable to keep the tremor from his voice as the future before them suddenly seemed full of possibilities.


	18. Chapter 18

A tingling sensation skittered from his kneecap to his ankle as Dr. Meadows tapped his spine with measured precision, making Matthew nearly come out of his chair.

“Right there?” Dr. Meadows questioned, leaning forward to gauge Matthew’s expression.

“Yes,” Matthew replied, unable to keep from smiling, even though every nerve he possessed stood on high alert. “I still feel it, actually. It’s...lingering.”

Lingering. He’d never dreamed such a word would come to mean so much. For he felt--God--he _felt!_ It didn’t matter that the current sensations weren’t exactly pleasant. Hell, he would welcome pain over the numb inactivity to which his lower extremities had been subjected since coming home from the front.

“The same tingling sensation you described earlier?” the doctor asked before tapping the same spot lightly once more. Small shards danced beneath Matthew’s skin, almost as if his left leg were simply beginning to awaken from an overly long nap.

“Exactly the same,” Matthew stated. “Only sharper.”

“Pins and needles?”

Another tap produced a fresh outpouring of whatever they were, making him grimace and laugh simultaneously.

“Pins and needles,” Matthew confirmed. “Although the tailor wielding them would seem to be a bit cross.”

He heard Doctor Meadows chuckle before the older man made his way around Matthew’s wheelchair to face him.

“That’s good,” the doctor said before kneeling down. “Very good, actually.” The older man paused, rubbing his stubbled chin. “Do you think you could wiggle your toes, Mr. Crawley?”

Matthew's breath caught in his chest, his thoughts racing faster than a motor car. Wiggling his toes--such a small task, something his infant son did with frequency. But for him, a grown man, the task seemed monumental, like crossing no-man’s land with a rogue shooter still at large.

“I don’t know,” Matthew replied honestly. “But I’ll certainly try.”

He shifted slightly in his chair in order to extend his left foot as best as he could. Dr. Meadows then removed Matthew’s shoe, placing his foot back onto the footrest and gazing at it intently. Matthew bit his lower lip, wishing he’d felt more than phantom pressure at the contact, but he pushed such thoughts from his mind, concentrating on muscle memory that had been dormant for far too long.

Left toes, he whispered to himself, staring at digits that remained stubbornly immobile. Move, damn you. Move.

Sweat broke out across his forehead, and he nearly cried out in frustration, feeling as if he were reaching for a prize dangled just beyond his reach. Small shards sped up and down his leg, bypassing his foot even as they encircled his ankle. He bit his lower lip, wondering if he would draw his own blood, ignoring the slight trembling of his hand just as the impossible occurred.

His toes moved.

“Ha!” he barked, feeling as though he might sprout wings. “I did it! Oh my God, did you see?”.

Dr. Meadows grinned broadly as he began to manipulate Matthew’s toes.

“Do you feel anything here?” the doctor asked, massaging one toe after another.

“Yes,” Matthew answered. “A little. It’s not much, but…” He paused, attempting to swallow down rising emotion.

“But it’s a start,” Dr. Meadows finished for him. The men gazed at each other, nodding, smiling, Dr. Meadows kindly saying nothing as tears began to pool in Matthew’s eyes. Hurried footfalls just outside the bedroom then drew their attention, their mutual focus broken as Mary threw open the door and dashed breathlessly inside.

“What is it?” she asked, her expression morphing from one of alarm into one of curiosity. “What’s happened? Is everything alright?”

Matthew hurriedly wiped his cheek, smiling back at her as he beckoned her forward.

“It’s more than alright, Mrs. Crawley,” Dr. Meadows replied, standing up slowly, several of his bones popping in response. “Your husband just moved his toes. Come and see for yourself.”

Matthew had never seen Mary’s eyes quite so large, nor her expression so eager as she practically sprinted to his side. She gazed back at him with the wonder of a child, the pure joy beaming from her eyes reminding him instantly of their son. He focused all his energy on trying to repeat what he’d just done, grunting slightly at the effort until sensation connected and contracted simultaneously.

“Oh my God!” Mary cried out, stepping back in amazement, her focus flying from his foot to his face. “Matthew!” He chuckled, and she clasped her hands together before leaning down and throwing her arms around his neck. “This is good news.”

“It’s more than that,” Dr. Meadows stated as he replaced the reflex hammer back into his bag. “It’s a definitive sign that the swelling around your spinal cord is decreasing, Mr. Crawley. And at a fairly rapid rate, at that.”

Mary stood and laced her fingers within Matthew’s, giving his hand a tight squeeze.

“Which means what, exactly?” she asked.

“Which means that your husband is regaining the use of some parts of his body that have been previously unresponsive,” Dr. Meadows explained. “How many and to what extent is still unclear, however…”

The older man’s voice trailed off as he rubbed his whiskered chin.

“However?” Mary prodded, taking a step in the doctor’s direction. He smiled at them both, rocking back on his heels as he seemed to consider his words. “However, the rate at which Mr. Crawley is experiencing new sensation along with the vast range of locations where these sensations are being felt leads me to believe that his recovery will be profound.”

“Profound?” Matthew echoed, his heart pounding so heart it was a wonder it didn’t crack his ribs.

“Complete,” Dr. Meadows clarified. “Or at least complete enough that the chair upon which you currently rely could eventually be replaced by a cane.”

He heard Mary breathe in, feeling his world both narrow and broaden as he gazed at his physician.

“You mean I’ll walk again?”

Matthew tried to swallow, even though his throat was now devoid of moisture.

“I can make you no promises,” Dr. Meadows stated. “But yes, I believe that you will walk again, Mr. Crawley, and fairly soon, at that.”

A cry erupted beside him as his own heart lept, and he squeezed Mary’s hand as her other flew to cover her mouth. He couldn’t tell whose eyes held more tears, his wife’s or his own, but it hardly mattered as he smiled up at her, as the chains of both physical and emotional confinement began to fall away. Then she was clasping him, holding him, and he pulled her into his lap, uncaring of the fact that Dr. Meadows was witness to their actions. He kissed her hard and open mouthed, pressing his lips into hers, allowing her to kiss him back with equal fervor.

“I believe that is my cue to leave,” Dr. Meadows stated, making his way to the bedroom door. “Besides, I should be making my way to the train station if I am to meet your mother and transport her back here.”

“Thank you,” Mary stated, breaking off their kiss as she stood and walked towards Dr. Meadows. Matthew felt her loss immediately, his lap actually missing her weight. “For everything.”

Dr. Meadows smiled as he took her hand within his own.

“It’s moments like this that make my profession worthwhile, Mrs. Crawley. Now if you will excuse me, I shall take my leave.” The older man stepped out of the room before sticking his head back inside. “It will be at least two hours before I return with your mother, Mr. Crawley. I suggest the two of you make good use of your time.”

With that, he winked at them and shut the bedroom door.

“I believe he just instructed us to have sex,” Mary said, unable to keep from giggling as Matthew extended a hand in her direction. He chuckled, he couldn’t help himself, feeling as if champagne had just exploded in his veins.

“Then come over here and kiss me,” he stated, feeling his body come alive at her touch. She straddled his chair as best she could with her skirt, rucking it up in a most unlady like move that lit a brushfire inside him.

“Christ,” he muttered as her hands settled on his shoulders, as her mouth moved dangerously close to his ear, as her inner thighs hovered just above what he prayed would soon once again be functional.

“Far be it from me to ignore a doctor’s advice,” she breathed, setting off fireworks down his left leg that shot straight to his groin. He grabbed her face and pulled her lips to his own, devouring her, claiming her, feeling every part of him respond to her until he thought he might explode. Her fingers stroked his legs, his inner thigh, and he moaned as he felt--yes, felt her touch, at least on his left leg. It moved reflexively, and she kissed him harder, careful to keep her weight off of him even as her tongue pressed in hard.

“I want you,” she murmured, and if he hadn’t already been on the verge of combusting, her words nearly hurdled him over the precipice.

“What is it you want, Mary?” he whispered as his lips claimed her jawline, gratified by the shudder that wracked her body. “My fingers? My mouth?”

A gutteral hum rose out of her depths, washing over him like liquid fire.

“All of you,” she breathed, kissing him open-mouthed as her hand traced a trail down his torso. “Eventually. But right now, I want this.”

He nearly jumped out of his seat when her fingers closed around him. God, had he really just felt something... _there_?

“Mary,” he managed, her name both a summons and a prayer. “I...I…”

“You feel it, don’t you?” she noted with a smile, pulling back far enough to look from his groin to his eyes as he forced himself to nod.

“Yes,” he breathed, the word rubbing him raw inside, her touch cocooning him in a realm of wonder. “Christ...yes...Mary.”

Speech disintegrated into breathing, into touching, into sensations so overpowering he clung to her for support.

“You’re quite aroused, you know.”

Her words shot sparks from his knee to his inner thighs, and he swallowed, nodding, breathing, closing his eyes so he missed nothing, memorizing the tease of intimate touch.

“More than I realized,” he confessed. “I mean, I knew I was aroused, I just hadn’t realized that…”

His words trailed off as slender fingers teased his trousers.

“That you were so erect?”

He nodded, his ears burning as her teeth nipped his neck.

“Yes.”

She licked her lips as she undid the top of his trousers, untucking his shirt to grant her easier access to exactly what she sought.

He was in the verge of begging.

“Can you feel me?”

He hissed as her fingers wrapped around him, as she applied gentle pressure, as her thumb stroked his tip.

“Yes. God, yes.” The words scorched his tongue, burning him alive as he felt what he never dreamed he’d feel again. She was touching him, stroking him, making love to him with her fingers as her mouth branded his skin.

“Christ.”

The word nearly stuck in his throat as she squeezed harder, and he clasped her skirt to keep himself grounded. His head found itself between her breasts, the cloth of her blouse a barrier he’d like to strip away. But his hands seemed incapable of following instructions, as if they’d been robbed of the ability to function as his lower body asserted itself for the first time in months. Then it began to build, sensations so strong they struck him everywhere at once, aching, pulsing, then burning him alive as his stomach clenched and sweat broke out across his forehead.

God. He was going to come apart in her hand.

“Mary--I…” The warning fell to pieces as his insides shattered, as he crashed into her with a climax that devastated him with its intensity. He spilled onto her fingers, into her palm, but she didn’t stop until he stopped her, until the stimulation became too much, until the pleasure she brought him bordered on pain. Breathing was an effort, but not one he minded, and he closed his eyes for a moment to regain his focus, something he wasn’t certain he’d be able to do.

“Was that alright?”

Her words rubbed him like crushed velvet, and he fisted her skirt even tighter as he kissed her until he had to come up for air.

“It was amazing. You’re amazing.”

He opened his eyes then, nearly losing what composure he still had left in the intensity of her gaze.

“Now you know how you make me feel.”

Her words were hushed, wisps of air that made him tingle from his scalp to his toes. Pride swelled inside of him, making him feel as if he could rise from his chair and sprint from here to Downton.

“I’m so glad,” he breathed, his mouth brushing her cheek. “And I’d like to make you feel that way again. Right now.”

She bit her lower lip and tossed him a coy smile, her grip still wrapped around what was quickly deflating. He looked down, then, seeing her hand now covered with his seed, wondering just how such a sight could spark another surge of deep arousal.

“God, I’ve made a mess, haven’t I?”

She grinned back at him from under dark lashes.

“I’ve always wondered what it looked like,” she mused. He laughed then, and she did, too, a free, unhindered sound he resolved to draw from her more often. “Strange to think that this can create a baby. That it created Christopher.”

He managed to locate a handkerchief in his pocket to wipe off her fingers, his insides turning cold as he remembered the afternoon their child was conceived. God, he’d deserted her inside of that cabin, after coming inside her with a mad rush of anger and arousal, after cloaking his pride in the devastation of feeling deceived, after donning his uniform of self-righteousness and posing as a man of honor.

He’d been a complete ass.

“Leave that day behind us,” she whispered, cradling his face with her hands. “It doesn’t belong here, Matthew. Not here between us. Not anymore.”

His mouth covered hers then, loving her more with each second that passed, needing her in a manner words couldn’t convey. He didn’t want to talk at the moment, not about their past, not even about their future. He wanted to show her the miracle that she was to him, to paint his adoration onto her body, to press his devotion into her skin. He wanted her, wanted to make her climax as blindingly as he just had, wanted to stroke her, to taste her, to share his first physical orgasm since their marriage with her.

“Lie down for me, Mary.”

Her eyes blinked open, heavy and dark. Christ, he wondered if seeing to her needs would make him climax again.

He somehow managed to wheel them the short distance to the bed, uncertain if new sweat was from that exertion or the heat that was Mary. He guided her towards the mattress, licking his lips when she sat on the edge and glanced back at him in curiosity.

“Lie back,” he breathed, the words so thick he nearly swallowed them whole. Her eyes widened as understanding took root, but she did as he asked, her breath catching in her throat as he guided her skirt up her thighs.

“Oh God,” she managed when his lips grazed her inner thigh, her hips hitching, her legs falling open in an invitation of utmost trust. “Matthew…” Then words dissipated into sounds, soft moans that spurred his mouth forward, edging, kissing, covering until her fingers found his scalp and her body began to rock. He held her thighs, bringing her closer, ever closer to him, losing himself to her taste and textures, wondering why in God’s name he hadn’t given her this before now.

“Matthew.”

His name was a summons, guttural and deep, prompting him to feast, to take her higher, to make her keen and buck until she was pulling his hair and rising off of the bed. She was falling into him, shattering, surrounding him in a manner so intimate it nearly singed him alive. Then she pressed him back, needing space, needing to breathe, something he understood and granted her as he sat up in his chair and gazed down at his wife.

“God, you’re gorgeous.”

She laughed, an airy, breathy thing, her arms now thrown back over her head, her skirt still ruched up around her thighs. He knew then that she was a goddess.

“I’m going to have to change before your mother arrives,” she managed, pushing herself up on her elbows. “You’ve made me untidy.”

He chuckled, reaching out to tuck a wayward strand of hair behind her hair, adoring how mussed it now looked, loving the flushed nature of her skin, enraptured by the rumpled state of her blouse.

“Good.”

She quirked a brow at him before making herself sit up, before sliding to the edge of the bed, before kissing him and moaning into his mouth at the taste of herself.

“I’ve been wanting to do that for a long time,” he murmured as she drew back. Noses touched, fingers caressed as they remained cradled in this private world that smelled of sex and felt like heaven.

“For how long?” she whispered. “Days? Weeks?”

“Years, actually.”

That made her sit up straight.

“Would you consider me a lecherous man if I told you that I’ve dreamed of kissing you like that since the night we first kissed?”

Her mouth fell open, and she gaped at him several seconds before licking her lips.

“You’re staring at me as if I’d just claimed that I could produce a rabbit from a hat,” he mused, chuckling when she shook her head.

“It’s not that,” she began, pausing to order her thoughts. “It’s simply that I never realized…”

She swallowed, looking down at her hands.

“That I wanted you so badly?”

Eyes met and held, the very air between them suspended in time.

“That you wanted me so badly,” she echoed, looking rather like a girl of nineteen again. “It almost seems like a dream, doesn’t it? Life before the war?”

Images blurred together in his memory, like a prized Monet left out in the rain.

“A dream of sandwiches and wine,” he mused. “And lips that I could no longer resist.”

Warm breath feathered over his cheek as another hair escaped from its confines.

“Are you a creature of duty, then?”

He blinked, smiling at her words from years passed.

“Don’t tease me,” he breathed. She tossed him a half-grin before leaning in to press her lips to his neck, and he swallowed, unable to think clearly as her tongue grazed his jawline. “I don’t deserve it. Especially from you.”

Her chuckle was deep and earthy, the nip that followed both playful and heartfelt.

“Oh, Matthew,” she murmured. “You must never pay attention to the things I say.”

Emotion struck him as soundly as any bullet, and he drew back then to look at her, to memorize her, to take her in and press everything about her into marrow and bone.

“I love you, Mary. So very, very much.”

She looked away as tears gathered, and then she swallowed, licking her lips before feathering her mouth over his. He pulled her to his chest then, cradling her, holding her, kissing her forehead, her temple, her cheek, claiming every part her as he should have done in that cabin, cherishing her as a man should cherish his wife.

“I love you, too,” she whispered, her words felt more than heard, their delicacy more exquisite than a butterfly’s wings. His heart fluttered before it swelled, before he wept, before she joined him, and they held each other for what seemed like hours until Christopher’s wails cut into their solitude, forcing them back into their surroundings.

“Let Nanny Logan tend to him,” Matthew said, not caring that his request bordered on a plea. “Stay here with me--just a few moments more.”

She closed her eyes and touched her forehead to his, nodding as she held him, as she accepted him, as she loved him in a manner now sacred to them both.

____________________________________________________________________________

“Matthew! That’s marvelous!”

Isobel’s exclamation had them all beaming as Matthew wiggled his toes once again. Mary eyed him, gratified to see that her husband didn’t seem to be feeling like a prized exhibition at the local fair.

“It is rather exciting,” Matthew agreed, chuckling at his own understatement.

“It’s a life-changer,” Isobel argued. “And I’m so happy for you, Matthew. For you and Mary, both.”

His eyes faltered for a moment, and she saw the shard of fear he was desperately trying to keep hidden. The uncertainty of when and where progress could take him or cease, the need to keep his hopes from rising above the point of no return--these were fears she shared. Yet the improvement he was already experiencing was worth celebrating in full, something they’d done intimately in a manner that made her blush to remember. She moved to his side then, passing Christopher to his grandmother much to both the child’s and Isobel’s delight before moving to Matthew and clasping his hand.

“That it is,” Mary said. “It’s more than we used to believe possible.”

He squeezed her palm.

“And far more than I deserve.”

His voice cracked, and she felt the small tremor in the hand she now held.

“Life isn’t about what we deserve, is it?” she replied, needing to pull him back from the ledge on which they had been teetering for nearly two years now. “It seems to me it’s more about living with whatever circumstances we’re dealt and making the best choices we can at the time.”

Matthew looked up at her then, his eyes shining, his vulnerability on full display.

“I fear that if we were all dealt the hand we deserved, humanity would be a miserable lot, indeed,” Isobel stated as her grandson let out a happy squeal.

“Here here!” said Dr. Meadows as he raised his saucer of tea. “Well said, Mrs. Crawley.”

Isobel looked at the pair of them once again, as if she still couldn’t believe the progress they’d made as a couple. Of course she’d be stunned, Mary reminded herself. The last time Isobel had seen them had been directly after their wedding. She herself was rather amazed at the healing that had taken place between them since then, a painful but necessary journey she now knew was worth every step. She looked at her husband before swallowing and clearing her throat.

“I for one am thankful that Matthew and I chose to face life’s challenges together. They’re far less daunting that way.”

“That they are.”

His tone caressed her as intimately as his tongue had but hours ago, and her heart swelled to the point of bursting, the strength of her love for this man now a balm rather than a wound.

Silence descended until Christopher let out another squeal and kicked his chubby legs.

“So what’s the next step, Dr. Meadows?” Isobel asked.

“I’ve given Mr. Crawley some exercises,” the doctor replied. “To help strengthen the muscles he’s been unable to use.”

“I had to make him stop earlier,” Mary added. “Lest he wear himself out before the pair of you arrived.”

Had she imagined Dr. Meadows raising his eyebrows, or Isobel’s hasty glance in the older man’s direction?

“Therapy should be repeated on a regular basis,” Dr. Meadows stated after clearing his throat. “But within reason. Keep in mind that exhaustion is never the desired outcome.”

Matthew’s face reddened.

“Trust me,” he stated, shooting her a glance she felt all over. “I’ve no intention of causing myself any further damage, no matter how stimulating testing my limits may be.”

Mary’s cheeks heated instantly.

“Well,” Isobel intervened. “Whatever exercises you took on before my arrival must have agreed with you, Matthew. You both look better than I’ve seen you in months.”

Mary bit her lip then, struggling to keep her composure intact.

“The benefits of therapy can be staggering,” Dr. Meadows stated, taking another sip of his tea.

“How is everyone?” Mary managed, needing to steer the conversation away from such intimate ground. “At Downton, I mean.”

“Very well,” Isobel returned as she bounced Christopher on her knee. “Your mother sends her love expressly, as does Carson, although not in so many words.”

A smile pulled at Mary’s cheeks.

“Dear Carson,” she murmured, moving to sit down close to Matthew. “I think I miss him most of all.”

“Not surprising,” Isobel returned. “He’s quite bereft without you, I’m told. And he gave me specific orders to tell you that he hopes to see both you and Master Christopher for Christmas.”

She shared an uneasy glance with her husband.

“We haven’t been invited,” Matthew stated. “Not yet, anyway.”

“Not even by Cora?” Isobel queried.

“Mama says she is planning to come here for a visit over the holidays,” Mary explained. “I suppose she thinks that it would be easier for everyone involved.”

“And how do you feel about this?” Isobel asked, her brow furrowed. Mary sighed, her shoulders slumping as she felt Matthew squeeze her hand.

“I’m not entirely certain,” she replied. “Hurt. Frustrated. Relieved.”

“Cora coming for a visit brings little to no stress into our lives,” Matthew added. “Whereas planning a trip to Downton right now…” He sentence faded into the room, only Christopher unaffected by the weight of it's meaning.

“We’re happy here,” Mary interjected. “Our neighbors are both kind and helpful, we don’t have to worry about whether or not we are the topic of whispered conversations or innuendo. Whereas at Downton…”

Her words faltered this time, and she squared her shoulders, sitting up taller in the process.

“You needn’t say any more,” Isobel intervened. “I know the difficulties you face there, but I also know there are many who miss you terribly and would welcome your presence with open arms.”

“Carson and Mama, perhaps,” Mary said.

“Along with your grandmother,” Isobel added. “Sybil, Anna, and your father.”

Mary’s eyes shot up, her heart leaping uncomfortably into her throat.

“Granny, Sybil and Anna I can believe,” she returned. “But not Papa.”

She felt so very young again, fighting down the familial shame now stinging her cheeks.

“I don’t know if he can ever forgive me,” she continued, her fingers plucking at her dress. “Perhaps if he had only to accept what happened between Matthew and me, but that along with my past with Kamal Pamuk.”

Isobel shot a quick glance at Dr. Meadows, the older man’s hands raising at once in a calming gesture.

“Dr. Meadows is aware of everything that has transpired,” Matthew hastily explained.

“And Mr. and Mrs. Crawley have my full support, I assure you,” Dr. Meadows interjected. “As well as my absolute discretion. Believe me, Mrs. Crawley, I am the very last person in the world who believes that a woman’s past should ever be held against her, nor a man’s for that matter.”

Mary smiled, her chest expanding at the freedom the older man’s words afforded.

“I knew I liked you for a reason,” Isobel said, eliciting a smile from the good doctor that actually verged on a blush. “But Mary, your father loves you. Your past has done nothing to alter that fact.”

 

“Nor does my present seem to be able to assuage his disappointment,” Mary observed, her ribs contracting yet again. “Regardless of the progress Matthew and I have made, I shall always be the fallen daughtern his eyes, the one with a patched up marriage and an illegitimate son.”

Matthew squeezed her hand then, and she held it, needing it, absorbing it into the core of her being.

“I see no illegitimate children here,” Dr. Meadows stated, waving at Christopher with a smile. “Unless by illegitimate you mean unconditionally loved and accepted.”

“I wish everyone shared your perspective,” Mary stated, her shoulders feeling heavier by the second..

“Sadly, not everyone enjoys the advantage of beginning life being labeled for something over which you have no control,” Dr. Meadows stated.

“Advantage,” Matthew echoed, shaking his head. “I know of no other person who would claim being born out of wedlock as an advantage.”

“It colors every element of one’s outlook, Mr. Crawley,” Dr. Meadows explained. “It reminds you that we human beings are a flawed lot, and that moral superiority is all too often a mask of the most brittle sort.”

“Don’t I know it,” Matthew stated, giving Mary’s hand a squeeze.

“We all must live with the choices we’ve made,” Mary added. “But we don’t have to let them define us.”

“Wise words, indeed,” Isobel stated, locking eyes with Mary once more.

“They’re far easier to embrace here than at Downton,” Mary continued. “I’m not entirely certain I’m strong enough to live them yet under the barrage of proverbial stones and scarlet letters. And with Matthew’s recent progress, I do not want anything to hinder our happiness this Christmas. Surely you can understand that.”

Isobel eyed her directly, nodding in affirmation.

“Yes,” the older woman replied. “I can, and I respect your decision, Mary. I do hope, however, that the two of you will allow me to spend the holidays here with you and my grandson.”

Warmth spread across Mary’s chest, allowing her to breathe in fully.

“We were hoping you would want to stay,” Matthew said. “It would mean the world to us, actually.”

“Yes,” Mary put in. “You’ve been missed, Isobel.”

The women’s eyes locked again, reestablishing a bond forged through weeks of hardship and new life shared.

“Then I shall stay,” Isobel stated, her voice thicker than it had been. “Dr. Meadows, would you and your sister like to join us for Christmas Dinner? You would be most welcome.”

Matthew coughed as Mary shot him a warning look.

“We’d be delighted,” Dr. Meadows replied. “I can speak for Felicity as it will save her from cooking, and that will make her Christmas happy, indeed. That is, if it is alright with Mr.and Mrs. Crawley.”

“I won’t be cooking Christmas Dinner,” Mary said with a shrug. “That’s Mrs. Jacobs purview.”

“Then I shall put in a request for her Christmas Pudding,” Dr. Meadows said. “It is legendary in these parts.”

“It would seem to be all settled, then,” Matthew stated. His right foot twitched then, catching Mary’s attention and lighting up her insides more brilliantly than any Christmas tree. A collective gasp filled the room, broken only by Christopher’s gurgling and the ticking of the ancient grandfather clock.

Yes, Mary thought. It was shaping up to be a Happy Christmas indeed.


End file.
